THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


3 


*          • 

f-h LJ-  yw jHuj      v* 
' 


THE  LILACS 


Canute  Etgljt 
©tfjer  ^oems 


Second  Edition 

CURTS  &  JENNINGS 
CINCINNATI         CHICAGO         ST.  LOUIS 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
THE  WESTERN  METHODIST  BOOK  CONCERN. 


PS 


5  1 


TO  MY  WIFE 


759825 


*T^HIS  fell  to  me,  to  strike  the  strings 

Of  mine  own  harp  with  strenuous  hand, 
Refreshed  to  tell  the  joy  that  rings 
Through  all  the  coiirse  of  common  things, 
Believing  some  would  understand. 

No  tale  is  here  of  those  old  days 

When  warriors  went  in  armor  drest ; 
Melodious  words  and  honeyed  lays 
Seem  all  too  smooth  to  fitly  phrase 
The  making  of  the  mighty  West. 

No  eagle's  sweep,  as,  round  and  round, 

He  climbs  the  amplitude  of  air 
On  fearless  wing,  will  here  be  found ; 
The  warbling  white-throat's  low,  clear  sound 

And  wavering  flight  is  all  I  dare. 

5 


Here  winds  the  woodbine,  wet  with  dew, 
And  here  the  canes  of  cat-tails  grow  ; 
Here  lift  the  bells  of  larkspurs  blue, 
And  morning-glories  such  as  grew 
From  out  the  loam  of  long  ago. 

Here  doth  the  swallow  write  her  runes 
On  the  palimpsest  of  the  pool ; 

The  chevroned  blackbird  fifes  his  tunes  ; 

The  crocks  of  cream,  like  golden  moons. 
Make  twilight  in  the  dairy  cool. 

Here  blows  the  scent  by  sweetbrier  made ; 

Here  cameo  acorns  strike  the  sod; 
The  glow-worm's  lantern  lights  the  glade', 
The  smile  of  stars  on  snow-fields  laid, 

Where  earth,  asleep,  doth  dream  of  God. 

One  heaped-up  harvest  now  is  mine ; 

Faring  so  far  with  nature  hath 
Healed  mine  own  heart ;  and  if  one  line 
Shall  win  me  fellowship  with  thine, 

Then  cometh  in  my  aftermath. 


CONTENTS 


PROEM, 

KNEE  DEEP, 

WHEN  THE  GOLD  is  ON  THE  WILLOW, 

THE  SUGAR  CAMP, 

THE  COUNTRY  ROAD, 

His  SWEETHEART'S  THROAT,     ..... 

"STAND   BY,"      - 

HE  LEADETH  ME, 

WHERE  THE  OAK  LOG  CROSSED  THE  STREAM,   - 

O  CHRISTMAS  DAY, 

"  His  MARK," 

MIRROR  LAKE,      -  ... 

"AT  EARLY  CANDLE  LIGHT,"         .... 
"  DEAD  IN  KHARTOUM,"      -  - 

THE  OLD  TRAIL,      -       -  .... 

O  CHRISTMAS  TREE, 

EASTER  MORNING, 

'LOGAN  OF  ILLINOIS," 

OUR  WHITE  LADYE,        ....... 

THE  BREADWINNERS'  BALLAD,   - 

ON  THE  TIMBER-LINE, 

SASSAFRAS,    -        - 

"FOUR  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER,"    - 

"THE  RIVER  OF  LOST  SOULS," 

THE  WHISTLING  BOY, 

7 


43 
45 
48 

50 
53 
55 
57 
61 

63 
65 
68 

71 


8  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"  THE  LILACS,"    -  74 

"WHAT  You  DID  NOT  SAY," 77 

"  HARDSCRABBLE  AND  HIGHSTEEPLE,"      -  79 

COMRADE  HAYES, 81 

"THE  OLD  CIDER  PRESS," 83 

"  THE  BOY  WHO  NEVER  RETURNED," 85 

JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS, 87 

"JOSEPH," 88 

"  LOVE  Is  ENOUGH," 90 

"ALL'S  WELL," 92 

"  PRETTY  SOON," 94 

"  WHAT  Is  YOUR  LIFE  ? " 96 

"THE  DAY  WE  SEINED  THE  DAM,"  98 

"  THE  OLD  ZION  CHURCH," 100 

"  RIGHT  ON," 102 

THE  BACK  LOG'S  BLAZE, 107 

"  TAYLOR  OF  AFRICA," 109 

THE  BOY  WE  NEVER  SAW, m 

"MARY," II4 

THE  BLUFFS  OF  KICKAPOO, n6 

VICTOR  HUGO, I20 

THE  LAST  SERMON,                               I22 

SOMETHING  IN  THE  SUMMER, 125 

WHERE  THE  CORK  GOES  DOWN,   -       -       -               .       -  131 

WHERE  ARE  THE  HEROES? T-j4 

"JIM'S  MEETING,"   -                              I36 

THE  BROOK,-        ...                                -        -        -  140 

THE  DOGWOOD  TREE,             -       -       -       -  .     -       -       -  144 

GOD'S  MANUSCRIPT,     -               I46 

THE  UNKNOWN,        ....                ....  j^ 

ON  CHRISTMAS  EVE,    -       -       -                       -       -       -  149 

COMMON  THINGS, i$i 

PICTURES  OF  THE  PAST, I53 


"KNEE  DEEP" 


call  "  Knee  deep,  knee  deep," 
to-night  in  the  marsh  below, 
Down  by  the  bank  where  the  rank 

sword-grasses  and  calamus  grow ; 
They  are  the  toilers  who  make  the 

bells  for  the  winter  sprites, 
All   keeping  time  to  a  rhyme    they 

work  thro'  the  summer  nights, 

While  up  from  the  swampy  forge  the  sparks  of  the  fire 
flies  rise 

O'er  the  pool  where  wading  lilies  make  love,  thro'  half- 
shut  eyes, 
To  the  whippoorwill,  who  scolds  like  a  shrew  at  the 

fluffy  owl, 

While   the   night-hawk  shuffles   by,  like  a  monk  in  a 
velvet  cowl, 

9 


to  "KNEE  DEEP" 

And  the  bat  weaves  inky  weft  thro'  the  white  star-beams 

that  peep 
Down  thro'  the  cypress  boughs,  where  the  frogs  all  sing 

"  Knee  deep." 

Strange  that  the  spell  of  a  song  should  summon  a  man 

like  me 

Back  thro'  the  bygone  years  to  the  scenes  that  used  to  be, 
When  earth  was  hid  from  heaven  by  one  rose-hedge,  and 

through 
This  bourne  the  blessed  angels  looked,  and  asphodel 

odors  blew; 
Strange  the  invisible  choir,  deep  hid  in  the  swaying 

sedge, 
Should  woo  my  mind  to  wander  again   down  to  the 

water's  edge ; 
But  whenever  I  hear  that  carol  clear,  across  the  wide 

morass, 
All  the  evening  calm  and  the  twilight  balm  into  my 

being  pass; 

From  off  my  soul  the  sorrows  roll,  and  I  feel  my  spirit  leap 
With  exultant  joy  as  when,  a  boy,    I   shouted   back, 

"Knee  deep!" 

Knee  deep  I  wade  in  the  winding  brook  with  buttercups 

o'erblown — 
The  gold  upon  its  rippled  breast  half  hidden  and  half 

shown ; 


"KM EC  DEEP"  ii 

Knee  deep  in  the  billows  of  marigolds,  across  the  mead 
ows  fair, 

That  dance  upon  the  wanton  winds  and  toss  their  yellow 
hair; 

Knee  deep  where  the  bubbles  of  clover  break  upon  the 
summer  sea, 

As  thick  as  the  stars  that  shine  upon  the  breast  of 
eternity ; 

Knee  deep  in  litter  of  autumn  leaves  I  rustle  toward  the 
place 

Where  the  rabbit  unaffrighted  sits,  and  washes  her  inno 
cent  face; 

Song  of  the  quivering  culms  and  osiers,  I  am  wading 
again,  in  truth, 

Knee  deep  in  the  stream  of  Memory,  that  flows  from  the 
land  of  Youth. 


WHEN  THE  GOLD  IS  ON  THE  WILLOW 


HEN  the  gold  is  on  the  willow, 

aud  the  purple  on  the  brier, 
Not  hoary  hair   or   heavy   care 

can  still  my  wild  desire 
To  race  across  the  uplands,  over 

Memory's  tender  turf, 
And  dive  out  of  my  sorrows  in 

the  dogwood's  bloomy  surf. 
O  blue  were  violets  in  our  youth, 

and  blue  were  April  skies, 
And  blue  the  early  song-bird's  wings,  but  bluer  were 

the  eyes 
That,  in  that  land  of  long  ago,  looked  thro'  the  window 

pane, 
And  saw  the  tulips  nod  to  us  amid  the  slanting  rain, 


WHEN  THE  GOLD  IS  ON  THE  WILLOW  13 

Where  all  the  dusk  was  glowing  with  our  ruddy  cottage 

fire, 
When  the  gold  was  on  the  willow,  and  the  purple  on  the 

brier. 

When  the  gold  is  on  the  willow,  and  the  purple  on  the 

brier, 
The  ducats  of  the  dandelions  have  paid  old  Winter's 

hire, 
And  sent  him  shuffling  northward  in  garb  of  tattered 

snow; 
White-tasseled    birches    after    him    their    balmy   odors 

throw. 

Carousing  in  the  bramble  brake  the  brown  bees,  booz 
ing,  sip, 

And  up  the  river's  cataracts  the  shining  salmon  slip. 
The    schoolboy's    spirit    leaveth    him   upon  the  weary 

seat, 
And  over  loamy  furrows  leaps,  with  lightsome  heart,  to 

greet 
The  chipmunk  on  the  mossy  wall,  the  bullfrog  in  the 

mire, 
When  the  gold  is  on  the  willow,  and  the  purple  on  the 

brier. 

When  the  gold  is  on  the  willow,  and  the  purple  on  the 

brier, 
He  whistles  the  cantata  of  the  blackbird's  noisy  choir, 


14  WHEN  THE  GOLD  IS  ON  THE  WILLOW 

And  all  the  murmurous  music  of  a  manumitted  stream 
Sings  soft  around  his  naked  feet,  where  shallow  ripples 

gleam, 

As  if  the  loops  of  crystal  wherein  the  lad  doth  wade 
Had    threaded    through    the    lilies  of   some    Paradise 

arcade, 
And   little   laughing    angels   had    tucked    their    tunics 

high, 

To  plash  across  its  limpid  shoals  before  it  left  the  sky ; 
And  still  it  lilts  the  melody  of  lute,  and  harp,  and  lyre, 
When  the  gold  is  on  the  willow,  and  the  purple  on  the 

brier. 

When  the  gold  is  on  the  willow,  and  the  purple  on  the 

brier, 

It  my  be  sin  to  say  it,  but  I  fear  that  I  shall  tire 
Of  heaven's    eternal    summer,    and    sometimes    I    will 

yearn 
To  see,  across  the  greening  swale,  a  budding  maple 

burn. 
My  soul  can  ne'er  be  satisfied  where  sweet  Spring  never 

hath 
Her  way  along  the   mountain  side  or  by  the  meadow 

path, 
Where  kingcups  never  catch  the  sun,  or  bluebells  mock 

the  sky, 
Or  trout  beneath  the  foam-wreaths  hide,  or  bass  jump  at 

the  fly, 


WHEN  THE  GOLD  IS  ON  THE  WILLOW  15 

And,  in  some  homesick  moment,  for  a  furlough   I  '11 

inquire, 
When  the  gold  is  on  the  willow,  and  the  purple  on  the 

brier. 


THE  SUGAR  CAMP 

'  HEN  you  want  a  treat,  delicious 
to  eat,  pass  by  the  poor  old 
bees; 

\ks   Slip   out   and   go,    thro'  a  late 
March  snow,  to  a  bush   of 
sugar-trees ; 
Step  down  the  hill,  when  all  is  still, 

and  soft  blue  smoke  is  curled 
In  the  frosty  haze,  where  ice-gems  blaze,  when  sundown 

takes  the  world. 
No  honey  of  flowers  in  this  world  of  ours,  no  sap  of  the 

Southern  cane, 
Melts  on  the  lip  like  the  sweets  that  drip  from  a  wounded 

maple's  grain; 

And  if  you  take  up  a  gourd  or  a  cup  of  the  plain  old- 
fashioned  stamp, 

And  sip  some  juice,  you  will  then  turn  loose  and  shout 
in  the  sugar  camp. 

The  giants  there  have  strength  to  spare;  their  seed  no 

man  has  sown; 
But  the  L,ord,  who  willed  our  good,  has  tilled  and  tended 

them  alone. 


THE  SUGftR  OTIP  17 

One  hundred  years  of  smiles  and  tears — of  the  sunshine 
and  the  dew — 

Have  gone  to  build  the  tree  that  spilled  its  blood  to 
day  for  you. 

O  to  wander  free,  as  I  used  to  be,  through  that  grand 
primeval  grove, 

Meandering  slow,  as  I  used  to  go,  with  the  sled  and  the 
team  I  drove ! 

Do  n't  talk  to  me  of  the  barley-bree,  that  steeps  in  a  still- 
house  damp; 

There  never  was  wine  came  out  of  the  vine  like  the  sap 
of  a  sugar  camp. 

What  are  stately  palms  in  the  Syrian  calms,  or  gardens 

of  olives  dim, 
To  one  who  goes  where  the  mighty  rows  of  the  maples 

make  way  for  him, 
When  the  sap  runs  free  as  the  melody  of  the  robin  above 

the  shed, 
With  the  whole  white  earth  beneath  him  and  the  whole 

blue  sky  o'erhead? 
For  the  happy  man  looks  into  the  pan  where  the  amber 

sweetness  swirls, 
And  sees  the  face  and  lightsome  grace  of  the  best  of  the 

country  girls, 
And  he  seems  to  see  that  home  to  be,  where,  under  the 

well-trimmed  lamp, 
His  wife  doth  wait,  when  he  comes  home  late  from  work 

in  the  sugar  camp. 


18  THE  SUGftR  CHMP 

So  he  drives  his  sleigh  down  a  winding  way,  along  the 

moonlit  lanes, 
To  where  the  light  of  a  farmhouse,  bright,  shines  from 

the  window-panes; 
Then,  cuddled  snug  in  the  ample  rug,  o'er  the  snowy 

roads  they  whirr, 
While  his  sweetheart  eats  the  spicy  sweets  he  made  that 

day  for  her. 
With  tinkle  of  bells  and  song  that  swells,  how  gleaming 

miles  unroll ; 
And  he  tastes,  so  plain,  the  flavor  again  as  he  takes  his 

lover's  toll ; 
For  the  sleigh  is  narrow,  and  one   swift  arrow  from 

Cupid,  the  rosy  scamp, 
Strikes  man  and  maid  from  his  ambuscade  as  they  circle 

the  sugar  camp. 

How  he  smiles  next  day,  as  he  toils  away  stirring  the 
bubbling  trough ; 

For  he  must  wait  to  know  his  fate  till  the  night  of  the 
sugaring-off. 

Cupid  makes  his  bows  of  wood  that  grows  in  the  sugar- 
thicket's  shade, 

And  dips  each  shaft,  clear  down  to  the  haft,  in  the  syrup 
when  't  is  made. 

So  all  ends  right,  and  I  say  to-night,  though  we  have 
suffered  and  toiled, 


THE  SUG7XR  CRHP  19 

We  could  both  forget  our  sorrows  yet  in  a  dipper  of  sap 

half-boiled. 
When  we  get  to  heaven  we  '11  kiss  our  folks,  then  start 

for  a  happy  tramp 
Up  toward  the  headwaters  of  Paradise,  just  to  work  in 

the  sugar  camp. 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD 


meandering  country  road, 
to  thy  track  I  turn  to-day, 
Where  the  carven  beeches  spread,  and  the  runnel  slips 

away, 
To  glint  across  the  shallows  and  gleam  around  the 

stones, 

And  to  croon  among  the  cresses  in  caressing  undertones 
That  answer  to  the  thrushes  hid  within  the  maple  shade. 
Toward  the  town  the  wagons  creep,  along  the  dusty 

grade, 
Where  the  old  covered  bridge,  with  catalpa  blossoms 

snowed, 
I^ike  an  old-fashioned  brooch,  clasps  the  old  country  road. 

I  see  the  brood  of  butterflies  that  border  every  pool 
Beneath  the  spreading  elms,  where  the  shadows  are  so 
cool; 


THE  COUNTRY  ROHD  21 

And  the  rivulets  of  sheep,  flowing  slowly  past  the  farms; 
The  ballad-singing   shepherds  bearing  lambs  in   their 

arms; 

And  the  tawny  tiger-lilies,  their  bells  all  spider-spun, 
Each  with  bumble-bee  for  clapper,  ringing  matins  to  the 

sun, 

As  I  rode  from  the  harvest-field  upon  the  swaying  load, 
Brushed  by  the  locust  boughs  on  that  old  country  road. 

There  is  the  little  village,  so  old-fashioned  and  so  snug, 
With  the  highway's  arm  around  it  in  the  fatherliest  hug, 
Where  each  cottage  wears  at  evening  a  smoky  purple 

dress, 

With  a  selvedge  of  the  sunset  to  set  off  its  loveliness. 
Above   the  door  the  roses  bloom  and  hide  the  lintel 

high, 
And  along  the  fence  the  pansies  make  a  pasture  for  the 

eye, 

While  the  open  dressers  preach  all  the  hospitable  code 
Of  the  friendly  ethics  common  on  that  old  country  road. 

0  if  that  weaver's  lassie,  rinsing  linen  white  as  snow, 
Could  whiten  out  my  soul  again  as  it  was  long  ago ; 

O,  perhaps,  if  I  could  press  again  that  meadow  with  my 
face, 

1  could  cool  my  weary  heart  with  the  turf  of  that  old 

place; 


22  THE  COUNTRY  ROAD 

And  at  the  end  of  life,  in  that  ancient  burial-plot, 

How  sweet  would  be  my  slumber — all  uncrowded  and 

forgot; 
And  I  think  sometimes  my  spirit,  from  its  heavenly 

abode, 
Would  come  down  and  walk,  at  twilight,  up  that  old 

country  road. 


HIS  SWEETHEART'S  THROAT 


THAT   reminds   me — I   reckon   I 
never  told 
This  camp  how  "Wes."  won  a 

medal  of  gold. 
I  can  hear,  to-night,  the  Chancellor  say, 
In  the  southern  school  down  Georgia  way, 
"Whoever" — These  beans  are  about  the  stuff, 
But  this  bull-beef  is  so  awful  tough, 
I  can  scarcely  chew  the  gravy ;  and 
This  coffee  is  hot  as  a  Texas  brand, — 
"  Whoever  is  first  on  the  final  vote 
Will  hang  his  prize  at  his  sweetheart's  throat." 

Well,  I  kept  the  tally,  and  I  tell  you 
He  roped  that  crowd  as  clever,  and  threw 
It  as  clean  as  a  steer  that  hits  the  sky, 
In  just  two  minutes  from  stirrup  to  tie. 
I  can  see,  in  this  crackling  mesquite  blaze, 
The  scene  as  it  was  in  those  old  days ; 
23 


24  HIS  SWEETHEART'S  THROAT 

The  handsome  girls,  high-born  and  rich, 
Who  beamed  on  the  orators,  wondering  which 
Would  gain  the  glory,  and  then  devote 
His  prize  to  hang  at  his  sweetheart's  throat. 

He  is  not  a  saint — he  can  bite  a  word 

Into  blazing  brimstone  when  his  herd 

Is  mavericked,  and  he  told  "  Kid's  "  breed 

That  the  timber-wolves  on  them  would  feed 

If  they  lifted  his — but  I  wish  you  all 

Had  seen  that  classic  college  hall 

With  fine  old  jewels,  and  fine  new  frocks, 

And  the  boys  in  buckles  and  bushy  locks, 

When  "  Wes."  came  out,  in  his  home-made  coat, 

To  win  the  prize  for  his  sweetheart's  throat. 

When  he  cleared  the  corral  and  took  the  track, 

We  all  stood  up,  and  shook  the  shack 

With  shouts  for  "Wes.,"  with  his  curly  hair, 

And  his  eye  like  the  eye  of  a  Pinto  mare 

For  fire,  and  as  slim  as  a  yucca  stem. 

Stars !  how  he  turned  and  swept  at  them, 

With  voice  as  sweet  as  the  tinkling  bell 

On  a  Brazos  spur,  and  a  speech  that  fell 

Like  a  silver  riata,  coiled  to  tote 

Away  that  prize  for  his  sweetheart's  throat. 

He  pulled  up  the  picket-pins,  took  the  lead 
Of  that  beautiful  bunch  in  a  wild  stampede 


HIS  SWEETHEART'S  THROAT 

Up  the  coulee  to  heaven  and  back  again. 
Well,  I  have  seen  women  weep,  and  men, 
But  I  say  now,  when  "  Wes."  marched  down 
To  his  mother,  in  her  linsey  gown, 
Who  stood  there  waiting  for  a  kiss, 
And  just  took  her  weary  hands  in  his, 
We  cried,  and  cheered,  and  howled,  to  note — 
He  hung  his  prize  at  his  sweetheart's  throat. 


HE  swing  of  the  sea,  the  billow's 

long  beat, 
Flow  thro'  this  tale  that  floats 

out  of  the  fog. 
A  rude  hearse  was  rattled  along  an  old  street ; 

No  mourner  was  near  it — not  even  a  dog. 
A  wandering  sailor,  blown  in  from  the  wave, 

Went  up  to  the  wagon  that  carried  the  dead, 
Kept  close  behind  till  it  came  to  the  grave 

Of  the  stranger,  and  stood  with  his  uncovered  head 
Till  the  coffin  was  covered,  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
And  said,  "  I  thought  some  one  should  just  '  stand  by.'  " 

Hear  the  moan  of  the  blast,  the  rain  on  the  beach, 

Curlew's  cry  thro'  the  spray,  in  this  man's  gentle 
deed. 

Did  the  wail  of  his  weanlings,  who  wait  for  him,  teach 
This  sun-browned  old  saint  such  a  heavenly  creed  ? 

Did  some  fell  affliction  his  own  life  had  felt 

Scud  o'er  his  sad  soul  as  the  pauper  went  past  ? 
26 


"STAND  BY"  27 

Did  unspeakable  loss  make  his  sympathy  melt 

For  a  poor,  friendless  mortal,  forsaken  at  last? 
Did  a  sob  sag  his  breast,  or  a  tear  wet  his  eye  ? 
I  know  not,  and  care  not,  because  he  "  stood  by." 

"Stood  by"  all  alone  on  that  wide  village  road; 

"Stood  by"  in  the  bonds  of  the  great  brotherhood; 
"Stood  by"  in  the  grand  old  Samaritan  code 

That  't  is  fine  to  be  friendly,  't  is  good  to  do  good. 
Heaven  bless  him,  and  bear  him  with  favoring  gales 

To   his  far-away  home.     Should   the  wild  tempest 

smite, 
When  waves  take  his  deck  and  winds  take  his  sails, 

Surely  One  will  walk  near  in  the  watch  of  the  night. 
Who  will  say  to  him  softly,  "  Fear  not,  it  is  I. 
I  saw  thee  that  day  and  have  come  to  '  stand  by.'  " 


"HE  LEADETH  ME" 


N  the   Rocky  Mountains, 

the  engineers  say, 
Wherever    the    water 
dares  to  come  down, 
A  railway  dares  to  go  up; 

and  they 

Coil  around  the  loftiest  Titan's  crown 
The  loops  of  the  lasso  of  winding  track ; 
And  up  this  Romeo  ladder  they  glide, 
To  smirch  with  the  murk  of  the  smoky  stack 
The  stainless  hue  of  the  clouds  that  hide 
The  brow  of  old  Blanco,  scarred  with  age, 
Where  we  rode  that  night  on  the  "narrow  gauge." 

Startled,  we  heard  the  shrill  whistle  scream, 

And  flocks  of  echoes,  scared  by  its  breath, 
Fluttered  and  flew  thro'  the  hissing  steam. 

Near  was  the  summit,  but  nearer  Death 
28 


"HE  LCftDETH  HE"  29 

Stood  beckoning  us.     We  felt  the  lurch, 

And  heard  the  brave  engine  wrench  and  strain, 

Then  backward,  down  from  the  eagle  perch 
To  the  far-off  valley  reeled  the  train. 

Fear  blanched  our  faces,  when  one  outspoke : 

"  L/eap  for  your  lives  !  the  coupling 's  broke." 

"  The  brakes  are  useless,"  another  one  cried, 

As  into  the  gorge,  with  a  cosmic  whirr, 
We  fell.  L,et  the  poets  tell  the  night-ride 

Of  Paul  Revere,  with  his  red- wet  spur ; 
Or  Sheridan,  when  the  long  race  was  done, 

Smiting  Defeat  on  his  boastful  face ; 
Of  the  three  who  started  when  only  one 

Brought  the  good  news  from  Ghent  to  Aix; 
But  the  thrill  of  them  all  was 'in  our  veins, 
Swept  from  the  peak  to  the  distant  plains. 

We  followed  the  foamy  stream,  and  swerved 

Where  white  stars  lay  in  emerald  deeps ; 
Roared  through  snow-sheds ;  leaned  and  curved ; 

Hung  pendulous  over  the  crumbling  steeps ; 
Like  a  meteor  burning  the  midnight  air 

Swayed  inward,  scouring  the  granite  bank ; 
While,  crashing  amid  the  cries  of  prayer, 

Torn  from  its  moorings,  the  water-tank 
Was  hurled  and  tossed  in  the  clanging  car 
That  bore  us  away  to  the  judgment-bar. 


30  "HE  LEADETH  ME" 

One  slip  or  stumble  would  surely  fling 

Us  all  through  the  gate  of  eternity, 
When  a  white-haired  woman  began  to  sing 

That  ancient  lyric,  "  He  Leadeth  Me." 
No  wavering  air,  but  clear  and  full 

It  rose  and  fell  on  that  fearsome  din, 
Triumphant  as  swims  a  gleaming  gull 

Through  the  ocean  storm  she  revels  in. 
Our  cradle  rocking,  the  Lord  beat  time, 
And  we  were  swinging  to  that  old  rhyme. 

Her  faith  laid  hold  on  the  Father's  arm  ; 

We  joined  the  chorus,  and  cast  our  fears 
To  the  howling  winds ;  there  could  be  no  harm. 

With  the  seas,  and  suns,  and  choiring  spheres, 
We  swung  harmonious,  rhythmic  sweet, 

In  the  heavenly  temple  vague  and  vast ; 
We  clung,  like  little  ones,  to  His  feet 

Till  safely  stopped  on  the  plain  at  last. 
As  the  train  descended  our  souls  had  trod 
Up  the  ladder  of  song  to  the  throne  of  God. 


WHERE  THE  OAK  LOG  CROSSED  THE  STREAM 


WHERE  THE  OAK  LOG  CROSSED  THE 
STREAM 


L  EMORY  is  busy  with  the  old  folks.     Like 

that  Bible  brother's  wife, 
We  are  fond  of  glancing  backward  o'er 

the  scenes  of  early  life ; 
And  to-night,  while  sitting  musing,  when  the  dusk  was 

coming  down, 
I  forgot  the  children  playing,  and  the  murmur  of  the 

town. 
When  you  called  me  I  was  driving,  thro'  the  bars  and 

down  the  lane, 

That  faithful  cow  of  father's,  walking  by  her  once  again, 
With  my  sun-tanned  arm  caressing  her  neck's  soft  vel 
vet  skin, 

And  telling  her  the  secrets  and  the  sorrows  hid  within 
The  deep  heart  of  a  laddie,  when  she  turned  and  licked 

my  hand, 

And  breathed   clover-scented   comfort   any   boy   could 
understand. 

3  33 


34        WHERE  THE  (Wx  LOG  CROSSED  THE  STREAM 

O  a  whiff  of  mint  and  pennyroyal  upon  the  air  did  seem 
To   blow  from   Brindle's  pasture,  where  the   oak   log 
crossed  the  stream. 

She  would  meditate  a  moment,  then  the  coolest  place 

would  seek, 
Where  swaying  willow  branches  trailed  their  fringes  in 

the  creek, 
And  then  set  her  agate  hoofs  in   the  gravel's  polished 

gold, 
To  dip  her  dappled  muzzle  where  the  violet  ripples 

rolled; 

And  such  long,  delicious  drinking,  such  a  thankful  up 
ward  look, 
As  she  plashed,  with  dripping  nostrils,  to  the  margin  of 

the  brook; 
Then  a  cloud  of  mist  upblown,  and  a  low,  deep-chested 

moan, 
A  kind  of  humble  dumb  thanksgiving  and  returning  God 

his  own ; 
Then  along  the  road  together  we  meandered,  slow  and 

still, 
Where   katydid   was   calling   figures   for   the   fire-flies' 

quadrille, 
And  I  was  wandering  in  haunted  lands  of  legend  and  of 

dream, 
While  coming  thro'  the  shadows  where   the   oak  log 

crossed  the  stream. 


WHERE  THE  OAK  LOG  CROSSED  THE  STREAT1         35 

I  am  thinking  much  this  season  of  the  glad  old  long 

ago; 
Perhaps  I  am  failing,   Helen,   dear  old  wife,  I  hardly 

know, 
And  there  may  be  sin  in  looking  back;  that  Scripture 

sister  went 

Thro'  a  lot  of  trouble  by  it — had  a  dreadful  punishment — 
But  if  she  was  as  happy  and  half  as  full  of  high  delight 
While  looking  o'er  her  shoulder  as  I  am  this  blessed 

night, 
Perhaps  the  end  was  peaceful.     If  I  was  sure  I  had  to 

die, 

And  never  see  another  sun  arise  across  the  eastern  sky, 
I  would  like  to  meet  the  river — the  darksome  flood  of 

death — 
Beside  that  twilight  village  road,  and,  with  my  parting 

breath, 
Say  good-bye  to  all  my  loved  ones,  with  the  other  shore 

agleam, 
And  wade  out  from  earth  forever  where  the  oak  log 

crossed  the  stream. 


CHRISTMAS  Day, 
O  Christmas  Day ! 
O  Babe,  who  in  the 

manger  lay, 

Once  more  thy  star  its  splendor  spills 
Across  the  sleeping  Syrian  hills, 
Once  more  the  strange  old  story  thrills 
The  mind  of  man,  till,  sweet  and  clear, 
Our  songs  run  round  the  board,  whose  cheer 
Makes  laughing  children  leap,  and  say, 
"O  Christmas  Day,  O  Christmas  Day!" 


O  Christmas  Day,  O  Christmas  Day ! 

How  selfishness  doth  melt  away ! 
All  eyes  with  kindly  joy  do  shine, 
All  lips  say  "yours,"  instead  of  "mine;" 
All  hearts  receive  the  Child  divine, 
36 


O  CHRISTMAS  D7W  37 

Whose  dimpled  hands  do  now  caress 

This  sad  old  world  in  tenderness  ; 

Blue  breaks  through  the  skies  of  gray, 
O  Christmas  Day,  O  Christmas  Day ! 

O  Christmas  Day,  O  Christmas  Day! 

How  every  year  doth  spread  the  sway 
Of  that  dear  King  whose  humble  birth 
Awoke  the  anthem  "  Peace  on  earth," 
And  taught  the  weary  world  the  worth 

That  in  the  lowly  soul  may  dwell 

Where  rules  the  Prince  Immanuel, 

When  Love  has  had  his  wondrous  way, 
O  Christmas  Day,  O  Christmas  Day! 

O  Christmas  Day,  O  Christmas  Day! 
All  hate  and  envy  thou  dost  slay ; 

Buried  deep  beneath  the  snow, 

Hid  by  holly  and  mistletoe, 

O'er  them  advent  angels  go. 
Hark  to  the  choir  of  chiming  bells ! 
This  is  the  story  the  steeple  tells : 

God  has  come  to  this  world  to  stay, 

O  Christmas  Day,  O  Christmas  Day] 


"HIS  MARK" 


IT  is  told  of  Angelo,  that  once  he  came 
Into  the  lowly  cottage  of  a  friend, 
And  found  it  empty ;  yet  he  left  no  name, 

But  one  great  curve  did  swiftly  bend 
On  the  blank  canvas  near. 

When,  on  return,  his  comrade  did  ex 
claim, 
"  Behold,  the  Buonarotti  hath  been  here !  " 

I  saw  a  splendid  rainbow  span  the  sky 

With  its  mysterious  and  mighty  arch ; 
In  stately  grandeur  sweeping  heaven  high, 
O'er  which  a   tempest,    with   majestic 

march, 
In  thunderous  music  trod. 

"Lo,    this    small    studio,    our   world," 

said  I, 
"  Hath  this  day  had  a  visit  from  our  God." 


"MIRROR  L7JKE" 


THEN  Day    cometh    over   the   dim 

mountain  tops, 

She    seeth,    far   down    in    the    en 
chanted  copse, 

Her  fair  face  reflected  in  that  magic  glass 
Laid  on  the  lawn  where  the  Merced  doth 

doth  pass. 

LO,  the  vale  hangs  inverted,  enfolded  in  firs, 
Thro'  fathoms  of  crystal  the  soaring  lark  whirrs, 
And  seemeth  to  sink  into  eternity 
In  the  marvelous  mirror  of  Yosemite. 

She  lingereth  there,  o'er  the  sky  lintel  bent, 
And  seeth  beneath  her  the  blue  firmament, 

Watching  the  mists  of  the  morning  that  scale 
The  path  of  the  winding  and  perilous  trail, 
The  steeps  of  the  Sierra's  gray  monochrome, 
The  storm-smitten  summit  of  awful  South  Dome, 
When  by  the  great  portal  of  red  porphyry 
The  sun  drives  his  car  into  Yosemite. 

39 


40  "HIRROR  LAKE" 

Below,  in  clear  water,  the  tall  turrets  swing, 

The  bold  cedar-trees  to  the  terraces  cling, 
The  sevenfold  rainbow  is  flinging  its  span 
From  Bridal  Veil  Falls  unto  El  Capitan. 

As  spun  by  the  sun  from  the  foamy  cascade, 

When  arching  across  the  aerial  glade, 

It  looks  like  the  girder  of  God's  balcony, 
From  which  He  looks  down  into  Yosemite. 

Sometimes  in  the  dawning  the  clouds  seem  to  stand 
On  a  far-away  ledge,  like  an  angelic  band 
That  pauses  in  flight,  on  the  opaline  verge 
Where  the  sky  and  the  snow  into  mystery  merge; 
Then  Day  to  the  seraphs  shouts  o'er  the  abyss, 
"O  shining  and  sinless  ones,  answer  me  this: 
Can  aught  in  your  heaven  of  heavens  e'er  be 
As  sublime  as  this  splendor  of  Yosemite?" 


"AT  EARLY  CANDLE-LIGHT" 

[HERE  is  no  night  in  heaven," 

so  the  circuit-rider  said ; 
Now,  blessings  on  his  saintly 

heart,  and  on  his  silver  head, 
He   little    knew    how    I    had 

dreamed,  when  all  my  work 

was  done, 
Of    meeting,    in    my    Father's 

house  my  long-lost  little  one. 

0  how  my  yearning  soul  shall  miss — if  heaven  has  no 

night — 
That  hour  of  all  hours  the  best,  "  the  early  candle-light!" 

1  know  the  dawn  is  lovely  when  the  rosy  wreaths  of 

cloud 

Fall  into  purple  furrows  which  the  sun  has  newly  plowed; 

The  prairie,  like  an  open  hearth,  on  which  the  day  doth 
kneel 

To  blow  the  coals  of  morning  into  splendors  that  reveal 

The  colors  that  are  curled  within  the  woven  mists  of 
white, 

But  't  is  not  so  hushed  and  holy  as  "  the  early  candle 
light." 

41 


42  "7TT  EARLY  CANDLE-LIGHT" 

And  sweet  the  noon  in  summer,  when  thro'  the  lattice 

blows 
The  wind  that  softly  whispers  where  the  cool  clematis 

grows; 

The  wheat  within  the  valley  bending  in  the  breeze, 
And  drowsy  cattle  wading  the  tarn  among  the  trees, 
The  eagle  o'er  them  sailing  thro'  the  sky  of  lazulite, 
But  it  can  not  bring  the  comfort  of  "  the  early  candle 
light." 

Oft  I  picture  eve  in  heaven,  where  not  a  leaf  doth  stir, 
When  every  harp  grows  silent,  hushed  each  lute  and 

dulcimer ; 

Where,  thro'  the  quiet  twilight,  down  a  path  of  Paradise, 
Toward  the  gate  comes  baby  Kate,  with  gladness  in  her 

eyes, 

And  on  the  paneled  pearl  lifts  the  latch  of  jasper  bright, 
To  greet  me  there  when  home  I  fare  "at  early  candle 
light." 


"  DEAD  IN  KHARTOUM  " 


O,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum! 
The  oak  of  England  is  prone ; 
The  crape  on  her  banners  is 

black, 

The  step  of  her  legions  is  slack; 
Upholding  her  banner  alone 
He  has  gone  to  his  glorious  doom. 
I,o,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum ! 


L,o,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum ! 
The  damp  of  the  Nile  on  his  brow. 
Great  Britain,  the  fateful  eclipse 
That  lies  on  his  eyes  and  his  lips 
Tells  thee  how  he  kept  his  vow. 
Death  came  as  a  bride  to  a  groom. 
IyO,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum ! 

43 


44  "  DEAD  IN  KHARTOUM  " 

LO,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum! 
His  toil  is  all  over  and  past. 
O  Albion,  could'st  thou  but  fold 
His  form  with  thy  warriors  old ! 
Thou  kept  the  best  till  the  last; 
Now  afar  he  goes  into  the  gloom. 
Lo,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum ! 

Lo,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum ! 
But  our  children  shall  wear  his  name. 
Egypt,  take  him  to  hold  and  keep; 
In  thy  pyramid  let  him  sleep 
With  thy  worthies  of  ancient  fame — 
For  him  will  thy  gods  make  room. 
1,0,  Gordon  is  dead  in  Khartoum! 


THE  OLD  TRAIL 


'  columns  of  cedars  begirt  with 
ferns> 

Over  peaks  where  the  pinons  climb 

together 
In  the  crimson  glow  where  the  sunset 

burns, 

And  the  purple  fringe  of  the  moun 
tain  heather ; 
Where  the  otter's  pelt,  in  the  emerald  pool, 

'Mid  dancing  foam-bells  dives  and  glistens, 
And  the  ousel  flutes  in  the  aspens  cool, 

Where  the  dappled  deer,  affrighted  listens, 
When  she  hears  our  hoof-beats,  far  away, 
Runs  the  famous  old  trail  to  Santa  Fe. 


A  highway  to  heaven.     The  bearded  and  strong 
Left  white-topped  wagons  and  weary  cattle, 

And,  bidding  this  sad  old  world  "So  long," 
Their  souls  went  out  in  the  Indian  battle, 

45 


46  THE  OLD  TRAIL 

Set  free  by  the  red  Apache  spears. 

In  clumps  of  cactus  their  bones  are  sleeping, 
Strewn  with  the  skeletons  of  their  steers, 

And  a  rattlesnake  in  the  white  ribs  creeping 
Makes  a  gruesome  epitaph,  Mate,  I  say, 
For  a  freighter  who  fought  on  the  Santa  Fe. 

Those  tunicked  old  settlers  were  clear  grit, 

And  I  reckon  their  women  even  stancher 
Of  soul,  if  a  fellow  will  cipher  it. 

You  mind  that  home  of  the  murdered  rancher; 
In  the  crumbling  corner  the  rifle  stands, 

With  a  rotten  strap  and  a  rusty  buckle; 
But  where  is  the  wife,  whose  loving  hands 

Trained  over  the  porch  that  honeysuckle? 
And  where  are  the  babes  who  used  to  play 
'Neath  its  scented  shade  on  the  Santa  Fe? 

You  have  not  forgotten  the  ford,  I  know ; 

That  wagon-corral,  and  the  log-fires  in  it; 
"Old  Baldy,"  lifting  his  brow  of  snow, 

As  white  as  your  honest  head  this  minute. 
O  the  yarns  we  spun,  the  songs  we  sung 

Of  "  home,  sweet  home  "  and  blue  Juniata, 
While  up  in  the  pines  the  new  moon  hung, 

And — pshaw,  old  partner,  what 's  the  matter? 
Does  it  hurt  you  yet,  when  your  hair  is  gray, 
What  she  said  that  night  on  the  Santa  Fe? 


THE  OLD  TRftIL  47 

Well,  he  went  down  at  your  elbow,  Dave, 

In  that  midnight  fracas  across  the  carry; 
You  helped  us  heap  up  the  lonely  grave 

In  the  cottonwood  grove,  over  handsome  Harry. 
We  found  him  dead  underneath  his  steed, 

With  his  empty  sixes  and  stained  scrape, 
Just  as  he  fell  when  the  mad  stampede 

Flung  far  from  him  these  two  unhappy 
Old  chums,  who  tell  of  that  red  affray 
With  tears,  as  they  think  of  the  Santa  F6. 

Gone,  stirrup,  riata,  and  rowel-bell; 

The  bellowing  herd,  in  its  wild  commotion; 
The  breathless  rush,  from  the  chaparrel, 

Over  the  sweep  of  that  grassy  ocean. 
But  yet,  my  comrade,  the  road  is  etched 

On  the  flowery  prairie,  fresh  and  vernal; 
And,  dear  old  friend,  when  we  are  fetched, 

By  Death,  beyond  the  white  range  eternal, 
We  will  wind  to  the  realms  of  endless  day 
Up  the  shining  trail  of  the  Santa  Fe. 


O  CHRISTMAS  TREE 


"HE  Palm  is  the  king  of  the  lands 

of  the  sun, 
And  his   touseled   plumes  are 

tossed 
Where  the  wild  gazelles   the 

winds  outrun, 
On  the  marge  of  the  mirage 

lost. 
He    stands    as   straight    as    a 

temple  shaft, 
And    his    laughing    leafage 

green 

Flings  fragrant  shade  on  the  fountain,  quaffed 
By  the  wandering  Bedoueen. 

But  no  palm-fruit,  when  peeled,  can  be 

As  sweet  as  the  fruit  of  the  Christmas  Tree. 

The  Oak  is  the  king  of  the  lands  of  the  corn ; 

When  the  tempest  clouds  the  skies, 
And  walks  the  world  in  splendid  scorn, 

How  its  wrath  the  oak  defies! 
He  stands  serene,  elect,  apart, 

And  he  drinks,  from  a  dewy  knoll, 
48 


O  CHRISTNHS  TREE  49 

The  sap  that  sings  in  his  shaggy  heart 
And  strengthens  his  stout  old  soul. 

Tho'  he  boasts  of  the  proudest  pedigree, 
He  doffs  his  crown  to  the  Christmas  Tree. 

The  Pine  is  the  king  of  the  lands  of  snow, 

Sole  lord  of  the  leagues  of  hills 
Where  the  stars  in  shining  clusters  grow, 

And  the  moon  its  splendor  spills 
On  the  edge  of  the  earth's  gray  parapet, 

Where  he  taketh  the  dawn's  red  torch 
To  rekindle  the  east.     This  warder,  set 

By  the  pillars  of  God's  white  porch, 
Thro'  the  gates  ajar  can  often  see, 
In  the  Father's  house,  the  Christmas  Tree. 

As  the  kings  of  old,  on  their  bended  knees, 

Bowed  down  to  the  Babe  divine, 
To-day  behold  these  high-born  trees — 

The  Palm,  the  Oak,  and  the  Pine— 
Come  over  the  hills  to  Bethlehem, 

With  their  gifts  of  spicery, 
IyO,  while  the  star  that  guideth  them 

Its  refulgence  throws  on  thee. 

The  Christmas  bells  fling,  wild  and  free, 
Thy  "Peace  on  earth,"  O  Christmas  Tree! 

4 


EASTER  MORNING 


THE  dawn  of  Easter  morning !     O  the 

sad,  sweet  day, 
When  thro'  the  laughing  lilies  loving 

Mary  went  her  way 
To  the  place  where    He  was  buried,   to 

weep  beside  His  tomb, 
'Where    the   cedar   and   the   willow   tree   were 

waving  in  the  gloom, 
And  the  myrtle  and  the  almond  tree  were  budding  into 

bloom. 

Upon  her  wistful  forehead  all  the  waking  wonder  shone 
When  she  saw  the  gracious  angel  sitting  on  the  guarded 
stone, 

When  she  heard  him  softly  say, 

"  IyO,  your  Master  is  not  dead ;  He  is  risen,  as  He  said," 
In  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning.     O  the  sad,  sweet  day ! 

O  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning !     O  the  sad,  sweet  day  ! 
When  Jesus  conquered  Death  alone,  and  ended  all  his 

sway. 
List!  how  Magdalene  is  calling  all  the  weary  world  to 

her, 

50 


EHSTER  MORNING  51 

Where  she  holds  the  bruised  cassia,  the  balsam  and  the 

myrrh, 

And  stands  with  gaze  enraptured  by  the  open  sepulcher. 
See  the  snowy  linen  folded,  which  he  nevermore  will 

need, 
Hear  the  happy  woman  telling  that  "  The  Lord  is  risen 

indeed." 

Now  the  shouting  Christian  may 
Stand  within  that  vault  and  sing,  "  O  Death,  where  is 

thy  sting?" 
In  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning.     O  the  sad,  sweet  day ! 

O  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning !     O  the  sad,  sweet  day ! 

When  we  were  all  delivered  from  dominion  of  the  clay. 

Within  that  burial-garden  how  the  heart  grows  calm ; 

How  the  bough  of  cypress  changes  into  the  branch  of 
palm; 

How  the  wailing  requiem  rises  into  the  wedding  psalm, 

Because  our  great  Emmanuel,  the  grave  could  not  con 
tain, 

Comes  back  to  be  a  comrade  with  his  own  elect  again. 
In  the  dusky  sunrise  gray 

Looks  and  speech  are  just  the  same,  calling  Mary  by 
her  name 

In  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning.     O  the  sad,  sweet  day ! 

O  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning !     O  the  sad,  sweet  day ! 
When  the  resurrection  glory  on  the  urn  doth  play. 


52  ERSTER  MORNING 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,  your  place  I  will  pre 
pare; 

For  you  must  be  beside  Me  now,  wherever  I  may  fare. 

Henceforward  all  My  blessedness  My  bride  will  surely 
share." 

O  Savior,  there  is  nothing  in  Thy  happy  heaven  above 

That  we  desire  a  portion  in  so  much  as  in  Thy  love. 
Often  hast  Thou  heard  us  pray, 

"Eloi,  when  all  the  race  is  run,  welcome  us  with  Thy 
'Well  done,'" 

In  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning.     O  the  sad,  sweet  day  ! 


"LOGAN  Or  ILLINOIS" 

ASLANT    brother    to    Bayard,    and 
Sidney,  and  they 

Who  galloped  in  glory  so 

long  ago, 
Like  them,  without  fear  or 

reproach,  I  say, 
With   as   steady  a   soul, 

and  as  stout  a  blow, 

And  as  loyal  in  love  which  he  gave  to  her 
Whose  prayers  were  the  pinions  of  faith, 

to  poise — 

'Mid  the  smoke,  and  the  din,  and  the  death- 
bolt's  whirr — 

"  I^ogan  of  Illinois." 

O  how  bright  was  his  sword  when  he  broke 

a  path 

Where  the  bristling  bayonets  slivered  the  sun 
Into  splinters  of  gold,  as  he  rode  in  wrath 
And  never  drew  rein  till  the  field  was  won. 

53 


54  "LOGAN  OP  ILLINOIS" 

I/ike  a  snow-suckled  stream  from  a  crag-crest  flung, 

One  sudden  precipitate  shaft  of  turquoise, 
Born  of  a  breed  that  old  Homer  has  sung, 
"Logan  of  Illinois." 

It  was  splendid  to  see  him  sweep  into  the  fight, 
With  his  dominant  figure  and  dauntless  air, 

To  speed  his  flight  and  to  cheer  the  right 

When  the  shout  of  his  soldiers  shook  the  air, 

As  he  plowed  his  way  to  the  perilous  place 

At  the  battery's  breast  with  his  Western  boys, 

His  great  soul  lighting  his  glorious  face, 
"  Logan  of  Illinois." 

O  thou  Prairie  State,  he  is  dear  to  you — 
This  knightly  one  who  has  lately  gone 

To  sit  in  the  temple  beside  the  two 

Who  sleep  by  the  Hudson  and  Sangamon. 

In  the  Hall  of  the  Heroes  thy  children  meet; 
High  fame  the  proud  mother  enjoys, 

Who  has  Lincoln  to  welcome  and  Grant  to  greet 
"Logan  of  Illinois." 


OUR  WHITE  LADYE 

fin  Harniorp  of  Stance*  tflijabetb  ^IHatti— 1839-1898 


iPAIyE  she  lies,  in  sweet  repose  ! 
Not  whitelier  lie  the  winter  snows 
On  this  sad  earth.     From  her  cold 

brow 

Unloose  the  braided  myrtles  now, 
And  bind  the  wreath  of  cypress  there. 
Put  lilies  in  her  hands  and  hair; 
Come,  gather  round  her,  ye  who  stand 
"  For  God,  and  home,  and  native  land." 


Doth  thine  anointed  vision  see, 
Brave  daughter  of  democracy, 
How  Church  and  State  together  bow 
Above  thy  casket,  weeping  now? 
They  loved  thee  so,  best  of  our  best, 
Thou  Miriam  of  the  mighty  West, 


55 


56  OUR  WHITE  LADYC 

Who  dauntless  led  thy  deathless  band 
"  For  God,  and  home,  and  native  land." 

No  woman  cried,  "  O  Lord,  how  long?" 
But  thou  fared  forth  to  right  her  wrong; 
No  man  went,  shackled,  down  to  hell 
But  on  his  gyves  thy  hot  tears  fell. 
Thou  this  old  world  in  ribbons  white 
Didst  lift,  as  loops  of  cosmic  light- 
Upbear  it  in  the  Almighty  Hand 
"  For  God,  and  home,  and  native  land." 

White  Ladye,  though  before  thine  eyes 
The  portals  fair  of  Paradise 
Unfold  on  thine  enraptured  view 
The  heaven  that  shone  thy  white  soul  thro', 
Though  high  the  victor's  anthem,  swells 
Where  thou  dost  walk  the  asphodels, 
Still  shalt  thou  lead  us,  still  command 
"  For  God,  and  home,  and  native  land." 


T  the  break  of  day  and  the  set  of 
sun  we  hear  their  heavy  tread, 
God's   old   brigade,    all    undis 
mayed,  they  battle  for  daily 
bread ; 

And  they  laugh  to  know  that, 
long  ago,  the  Lord  of  life  and 
death 
Fared  forth  at  dawn,  and  home  at  dusk,  with  them  in 

Nazareth. 
Foreheads  white  for  lack  of  light,  or  brows  all  brown 

with  grime, 
Their  garments  black  with  soot  and  slack,  or  gray  with 

mason's  lime, 
They  ring  the  trowel,  push  the  plane,  they  travel  the 

stormy  deep, 
They  click  the  type  and  clang  the  press  when   loved 

ones  are  asleep; 
Thro'  the  city  street  and  the  country  lane  their  lusty 

voices  ring, 

By  the  roaring  forge  in  the  mountain  gorge  this  cheery 
song  they  sing: 

57 


58  THE  BREADWINNERS'  BALLAD 

O  we  march  away  in  the  early  morn, 
As  we  did  since  the  world  began. 

Do  n't  muzzle  the  ox  that  trcadeth  the  corn  ; 
Leave  a  share  for  the  working-man. 


Some  are  workmen  coarse  and  strong,  and  some  are 
craftsmen  fine; 

They  set  the  plow,  they  steer  the  raft,  they  sweat  in 
sunless  mine, 

They  lift  the  sledge  and  drive  the  wedge,  they  hide 
with  cunning  art 

The  powder  where  the  spark  can  tear  the  mountain's 
stubborn  heart, 

They  reap  the  fields  of  ripened  grain  and  fill  the  lands 
with  bread, 

They  make  the  ore  give  up  its  gold  beneath  the  stamp- 
mill's  tread, 

They  spread  the  snowy  sail  aloft,  they  sweep  the  drip 
ping  seine, 

They  waft  the  wife  a  fond  farewell,  and  ne'er  come 
home  again. 

But  they  march  away  in  the  early  morn. 
As  they  did  since  the  world  began. 

Don't  muzzle  the  ox  that  trcadeth  the  corn; 
Leave  a  share  for  the  working-man. 


THE  BREADWINNERS'  BHLL7XD  59 

They  make  the  fiery  furnace  flow  in  streams  of  spout 
ing  steel, 

They  bend  the  planks  and  brace  the  ribs  along  the 
oaken  keel, 

They  fold  the  flock,  they  feed  the  herd,  they  in  the  for 
est  hew, 

And  with  the  whetstone  on  the  scythe  beat  labor's  sweet 
tattoo, 

They  climb  the  coping,  swing  the  crane,  and  set  the 
capstone  high, 

They  stretch  the  heavy  bridge  that  hangs  a  roadway  in 
the  sky, 

They  speed  the  shuttle,  spin  the  thread,  and  weave  the 
silken  weft, 

Or,  crushed  to  death  amid  the  wreck,  they  leave  the 
home  bereft. 

But  they  march  away  in  the  early  morn, 
As  they  did  since  the  world  began. 

Dorft  muzzle  the  ox  that  treadeth  the  corn; 
Leave  a  share  for  the  working-man. 

In  ancient  days  they  were  but  serfs,  and  by  the  storied 

Nile- 
Unhappy  hordes ! — they  drew  the  cords  around  the  hea 
then  pile; 

Where  Karnak,  Tyre,  and  Carthage  stood,  where  rolls 
Euphrates'  wave, 


60  THE  BREADWINNERS'  BALLAD 

Grim  gods  looked  down,  with  stony  frown,   upon   the 

hapless  slave. 
That  day  is  past,  thank  Heaven !     No  more  does  Man 

the  Toiler  bow 
His  mighty  head  with  fear  and  dread ;  for  he  is  master 

now. 
His  hand  is  strong,  his  patience  long,  his  wholesome 

blood  is  calm, 
Within  his  soul  sits  peace  enthroned,  and  on  his  lips 

this  psalm: 

O  we  march  away  in  the  early  morn. 

As  we  did  since  the  world  began; 
Do  n't  muzzle  the  ox  that  treadeth  the  corn; 
Leave  a  share  for  the  working-man. 


THE  mountain  rose  on  the  summit 
grows, 

Many  flowerets  are  far  more  fair, 
But  the  fearless  thing  doth  climb  and 

cling 

Far  aloft  in  the  shivering  air, 
Where  it  lifts  its  bloom  and  spills  per 
fume 

On  the  feet  of  the  foremost  pine, 
Who  leads  the  van  of  the  forest  clan, 
Where  the  snow-slide  sets  its  awful  ban, 
On  the  edge  of  the  Timber-line. 


I/O,  a  maid  doth  dwell  on  the  rim  of  hell, 
In  the  end  of  a  sin-cursed  street, 

Where  the  sneers  are  sped  about  her  head 
And  the  snares  set  for  her  feet; 

61 


62  ON  THE  TIHBER-LINC 

Tho'  lust  may  lower,  no  sweeter  flower 

Ever  grew  on  an  avenue  fine, 
And  her  heart  doth  ache  to  heal  and  make 
Their  souls  all  white  for  His  dear  sake 

On  the  edge  of  the  timber-line. 

IyO,  a  man  doth  stand  in  the  borderland, 

Where  he  battles  for  daily  bread 
For  his  children's  sake,  and  doth  calmly  stake 

His  all  on  his  God  o'erhead. 
Be  strong,  my  brother,  some  day  or  other 

His  saints  will  the  stars  outshine; 
We  shall  with  Him  sup,  He  will  fill  the  cup, 
And  His  own  right  hand  shall  lift  us  up 

From  the  edge  of  the  timber-line. 


AINT  as  the  sighing  winds  which 

fret 

With  sweet  and  subtle  harmonies 
The  silken  strands  aeolian,  set 
£&      In  mullions  old,  come  memories 

That  thrill  and  pass, 
Of  thy  wild  bole,  which  warder  stood 
On  bygone  bournes.     Our  sandal-wood, 
Slim  sassafras. 


that  green  tree  of  life  thou  sprang 
From  out  the  turf  of  Paradise, 
The  heaven  of  boyhood,  but  thy  tang 
Of  bark  and  root  among  the  wise 

Tall  trees,  alas! 
With  leafy  laughter  did  infect 
The  woods  at  thy  quaint  dialect, 
Rude  sassafras. 

Thy  spicy  root  had  virtue  rare 
The  blood  to  purge  and  purify; 

But  now,  amid  my  toil  and  care, 
My  mind  hath  medicine,  for  I 
63 


64 


Keel  all  the  crass 
And  evil  humors  of  my  soul 
Cast  off,  and  thou  hast  made  me  whole, 

Rare  sassafras. 

If,  some  blest  day,  when  I  shall  rove 

By  God's  great  river,  all  alone, 
Thy  breath,  from  out  the  healing  grove, 
Across  the  hills  is  softly  blown, 

And  o'er  the  grass, 
The  tears  that  blur  my  sight  shall  be 
Love's  tribute  then  to  youth  and  thee, 
O  sassafras. 


"EOUR  EEET  ON  THE  TENDER" 


OUR  pictures  I  see,  in  a  frame  quaint  and 

olden, 

Aglow    in    the    twilight,    half-gloomy,    half- 
golden, 
Where   big   beechen   logs,   all    the   fireplace 

filling, 
From    out   their   rude    caskets  their  rubies  are 

spilling, 

To  roll  o'er  the  hearth  in  a  river  of  glory. 
The  wind  in  the  chimney  is  crooning  a  story; 
On  walls  and  on  ceiling  the  shadows  are  shifting, 
And  down  the  wide  flue  a  few  snowflakes  are  sifting, 
Where  brother  and  sister  sit,  winsome  and  slender, 
And  face  answers  face,  with  "four  feet  on  the  fender." 

5  65 


66  "TOUR  TECT  ON  THE  TENDER" 

Then  later  I  see  a  young  man  and  young  maiden, 
Whose  low,  wooing  language  with  fervor  is  laden. 
I  hear  his  fond  question,  in  fear  and  in  trembling, 
Her  gracious  reply,  without  guile  or  dissembling; 
Then  every  blithe  robin  that  ever  had  nested 
Within  the  brave  beech-tree,  or  ever  had  rested 
Inside  its  green  tent,  when  it  stood  in  the  thicket, 
Seemed  singing  again  with  the  shrill  little  cricket. 
O  sweet  was  their  song  when  the  lass  did  surrender, 
And  hand  answered  hand,  with  "four  feet  on  the  fender!" 

Once  more  I  can  see  the  same  happy  pair  mated, 

Enclosed  in  the  Paradise  love  has  created. 

Around  them  the  children,  with  riotous  laughter, 

Flood  all  the  old  room,  from  the  rug  to  the  rafter. 

They  play  in  the  splendor  the  fire  is  flinging 

Across  the  broad  floor,  and  the  kettle  is  singing 

Its  cheery  defi  to  the  storm  that  is  piling 

The  gables  with  snow,  and  the  wee  baby,  smiling 

In  dear  mother's  arms,  makes  the  father's  face  tender, 

And  heart  answers  heart,  with  "  four  feet  on  the  fender." 

We  sing  of  the  Paradise  where  we  are  going ; 

O  fair  are  its  gardens,  with  pure  waters  flowing, 

The  amaranths  blooming,  the  azure  skies  arching 

Above  the  white  host  of  the  ransomed  ones  marching ! 

But  I,  sitting  here,  in  my  loneliness  yearning 

For  one  who  has  gone  whence  there  is  no  returning, 


"TOUR  PEET  ON  THE  TENDER" 


67 


Oft  picture  that  place  as  my  own  Father's 

dwelling, 
Where  she  whom  I  love  to  the  angels  is 

telling 
That  kindly  old  Death  soon  her  sweetheart 

will  send  her, 
And  heaven  will  begin  with  "four  feet  on 

the  fender. 


THE  RIVER  OF  LOST  SOULS" 


CANON  of  Las  Animas! 

Within  thy  porphyry  portals  dim, 
I  tread  thy  gloomy  gorge;  I  pass 
Where  writhen  waters  roaring  swim, 
Foam-shredded,  down  the  dark  abyss, 
To  gnaw  thy  gnarly  granite  roots, 
And,  round  thy  boulders  curling,  kiss 

The  sandals  of  the  lordly  buttes 
That  gaze  upon  thee,  with  the  glow 
Of  sunset  on  their  scalps  of  snow, 

Grim  warders  of  thy  grand  crevasse, 
O  Rio  de  las  Perdidas! 
Wild  Canon  of  Las  Animas! 

O  Canon  of  Las  Animas! 

Cut  saber-wise  clean  to  the  core, 
Sword-keen  thy  skyey  cataract  has 

Cleft  all  thy  cloudy  ledges  hoar, 
In  one  fell  sweep,  from  frost  to  flower. 

Aloft,  old  Winter  surpliced  sits; 
Alow,  the  wolf-cubs  crouch  and  cower 

When  thro'  the  reek  the  raven  flits; 

68 


"THE  RIVER  OP  LOST  SOULS"  69 

From  where,  on  thy  sheer  parapet, 
The  white  stars  nightly  walk  yidette 

To  the  green  pools  wherein  they  glass 

Their  glory  in  Las  Perdidas — 

Wild  Canon  of  Las  Animas! 

O  Canon  of  Las  Animas! 

Thro'  shambles  of  the  slaughtered  souls 
Thy  river  of  the  lost,  alas ! 

Scuds  swiftly  o'er  skull-paven  shoals, 
Where  tethered  shades  eternally 

Scroll  all  thy  sagging,  sunless  cliffs 
With  God's  name,  whom  they  can  not  see 

In  Hades'  hopeless  hieroglyphs, 
Looking,  all  dumb  and  nettle-crowned, 
Upon  the  blue  face  of  the  drowned, 

Gyved  hand  and  foot  with  graveyard  grass 

By  Rio  de  las  Perdidas — 

Wild  Canon  of  Las  Animas! 

O  Canon  of  Las  Animas ! 

Now  is  this  lying  legend  peeled 
From  thy  great  fame  forever,  as 

A  ripe  fig-skin,  and  thou  revealed 
Sublimest  Nature's  holiest  shrine, 

Where  spirits,  free  from  sinful  dross, 
Look  up,  to  see  above  them  shine 

The  "  Mountain  of  the  Holy  Cross," 


70  "THE  RIVER  OT  LOST  SOULS" 

Linteled  with  heaven  and  silver-silled, 
Thy  templed  dome  forever  filled 

With  songs  whose  cadences  surpass 
The  strong  voice  of  Las  Perdidas 
Wild  Canon  of  L,as  Animas!  


THE  WHISTLING  BOY 


BEDOUIN    lithe,    bare 
footed  and  blithe,  the 

«&m"V%*  rollicking  melody 

Which  through  thy  lips  so  lightsome  slips  is  the  ballad 

of  "  Rosalie, 
The   Prairie    Flower,"   and  gracious  power  within  the 

ancient  tune 
Brings  back  the  day  when  I  rode  away,  in  the  buxom 

month  of  June, 
When  the  slender  stalks  of  the  hollyhocks   lifted   the 

blooms  so  high 
Above  the  wall  that  they  shouted  all,  "Good-bye,  my 

lover,  good-bye ! " 
And  in  tunic  yellow  a  wild  bird,  mellow  and  mad  with 

tipsy  joy, 
Tilted  the  rhyme  of  his  tuneful  chime  to  the  lilt  of  a 

whistling  boy. 


72  THE  WHISTLING  BOY 

No  meadow-lark  in  the  misty  dark,  when  winging  her 

upward  way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  caroling  loud  to  waken  the 

sleeping  day; 
No   whippoorwill   in   the    twilight    still,    lamenting    in 

lonely  shade, 

Where  fireflies  seek  for  her  and  peek  into  every  glim 
mering  glade ; 
No  slave  refrain,  with  a  warp  of  pain  and   a  weft  of 

psalm  between; 
No  aria,  trilled  to  audience  thrilled  by  the  art  of  the 

opera  queen ; 
No  shepherd's  hail  in   a  hawthorn  vale ;    no  mariner's 

"  Home  ahoy !  " 
Wets  my  eyes  like  thoughts  that  rise  with  the  lilt  of  a 

whistling  boy. 

Thro'  happy  tears,  across  the  years,  on  the  lowland  farm 

I  see, 
Driving  his  line  of  lowing  kine,  the  laddie  that  once 

was  me, 
Whistling    clear,    to    the    thrushes    near,    that    cheery, 

quaint  old  strain, 
lyoitering  slow,  in  the  long  ago,  with  the  herd  along 

the  lane. 
They  say  that  some,  when  death  has  come,  and  all  life's 

toil  is  o'er, 


THE  WHISTLING  BOY 


73 


On  the  river  brim  have  heard  a  hymn  float  up  from  the 

farther  shore  ; 
But  at  the  ford  one  low,  sweet  chord  will  all  my  fear 

destroy 
If,  over  the  tide  from  the  other  side,  comes  the  lilt  of  a 

whistling  boy. 


"THE  LILACS" 


NE  day  in  the  city,  where  people  were 

pouring 
Along  the  wide  street,  with  their 

tumult  and  din, 

Where  all  the  great  center  of  com 
merce  was  roaring 
With    fashion    and    traffic,    with 

folly  and  sin, 
Where,   in   the   May   morning,   the 

wide  world  was  waking 
To  life,  from  the  slumber  of  cold 

winter's  spell, 
I  saw  on  the  corner  a  small  merchant, 

shaking 

The  plumes  of  the  lilacs  that  grew  by 
the  well. 

74 


"THE  LILACS"  75 

The  tall  purple  lilacs,  the  sweet-scented  lilacs, 
The  old-fashioned  lilacs  that  grew  by  the  well. 

I  looked,  and  behold  the  high  buildings  all  faded 

To  far-away  hills  where  the  firmament  bent, 
And  the  avenue  changed  to  a  river-road  shaded 

By  elms,  in  whose  shadows  my  naked  feet  went. 
A  thrush  in  the  thicket  was  singing  a  sonnet; 

Adrift  on  the  breezes,  I  caught  the  faint  smell 
That  came  from  the  bush  with  the  dew  diamonds  on  it, 

Which  lifted  its  blossoms  beside  the  old  well. 
The  tall  purple  lilacs,  the  sweet-scented  lilacs, 

The  old-fashioned  lilacs  that  grew  by  the  well. 

My  weary  old  spirit  waxed  younger  each  minute, 

I  flung  forty  years  from  my  soul  when  I  laughed, 
For  there  was  the  well,  and  the  face  that  was  in  it 

When  over  the  curbing  I  gazed  in  the  shaft. 
The  squeaky  old  windlass  the  same  thing  was  thinking; 

The  opal  drops  into  the  deep  crystal  fell; 
While  I,  from  a  dipper  deliciously  drinking, 

Looked  up  at  the  lilacs  that  grew  by  the  well. 
The  tall  purple  lilacs,  the  sweet-scented  lilacs, 

The  old-fashioned  lilacs  that  grew  by  the  well. 

And  then  I  saw  mother,  just  as  she  was  leaving 
This  sorrowful  world  for  the  land  of  the  blest, 

There  in  her  room,  where  we  children  were  grieving, 
And  saying  farewell  to  our  first  friend  and  best ; 


76 


"THE  LILACS" 


When  wistful  she  gazed  where  the  summer  sun  slanted, 
And,  whispering  softly,  she  told  us  to  tell 

Good-bye  to  the  roses  her  patient  hands  planted, 
Good-bye  to  the  lilacs  that  grew  by  the  well. 

The  tall  purple  lilacs,  the  sweet-scented  lilacs, 
The  old-fashioned  lilacs  that  grew  by  the  well. 


"WHAT  YOU  DID  NOT  SAY" 


*HERE  is  many  a  word  that 

a  man  may  rue, 
And  the  memory  of  it  will 

make  him  weep. 

Mayhap  some  heart  that  is  kind  and  true, 
Like  a  red  pomegranate  is  rent  in  two, 

When  out  of  the  soul  the  passions  leap. 
Storming  the  portals  of  speech  they  rush 
Into  cruel  words  that  condemn  and  crush ; 

But  the  pang  that  you  never  may  know,  I  pray, 
Is  the  woe  of  the  word  that  you  did  not  say. 

The  word  that  you  ought  to  have  said  to  him 

Who  put  up  his  pleading  face  to  ask 
For  a  father's  smile,  and  whose  eyes  went  dim 
With  tears  at  your  answer,  stern  and  grim : 
"  O  let  me  alone  till  I  end  my  task." 

77 


78 


Now  he  vexes  no  more;  yet  you  often  go 
To  the  grave  of  the  lad  you  slighted  so, 

And  call  thro'  the  grass  to  the  quiet  clay, 
And  sob  out  the  word  that  you  did  not  say. 

The  word  you  ought  to  have  said  to  her 

Whom,  long  ago,  you  did  lovingly  woo 
With  gifts  and  graces ;  but  tears  now  blur 
The  sight  of  the  bloom  of  the  lavender, 

That  brings  old  summers  again,  and  you. 
How  she  lists  and  longs  for  the  tender  tone 
Of  the  days  gone  by!     When  you  stand  alone, 
Your  face  in  her  lilies  you  then  will  lay, 
And  wail  out  the  word  that  you  did  not  say. 

The  word  you  ought  to  have  said — the  dear 

Old  pair  by  the  fireside  need  it  so! 
It  is  better  to  speak,  more  blessed  to  hear, 
Your  word  of  praise  while  they  both  are  near. 

How  free  would  your  filial  affection  flow, 
If  you  knew  how  we,  who  without  them  trod 
All  the  way  of  life,  are  entreating  God, 

Who  took  them  from  us,  that  some  time  they 
In  heaven  may  hear  what  we  did  not  say. 


"HARDSCRABBLI:  AND  HIGH5TEEPLE" 


HOUIyD  archangel  Gabriel,  nearest 

the  throne — 
The  resplendent  clasp  of  that  glittering  zone 
Which  girdeth  forever  the  glory  above 
With  angelic  anthems  and  lyrics  of  love, 
The  leader  of  all  the  great  legions  who  wait 
On  the  will  and  the  word  of  the  Uucreate — 
Come  flying  to-morrow  with  tidings  again 
Of  peace  upon  earth  and  good  will  unto  men, 
Seeking  the  shepherds  would  he,  in  his  search, 
Try  Hardscrabble  Chapel  or  Highsteeple  Church? 

From  harmonious  surges  of  that  choral  sea 
Emerging,  and  glowing  with  rapture,  would  he 
Look  for  fisherman  Peter,  tunicked  and  tanned, 
Or  publican  Matthew,  branded  and  banned; 

79 


8o  "H7XRDSCRA13BLE  HNDJHIGHSTEEPLE" 

The  harlot  whose  tears,  on  the  feet  of  her  Lord, 
Flowed  like  the  oil  the  Samaritan  poured; 
Or  that  weary  mother  whose  eloquence  won 
Her  daughter  to  health;  or  the  prodigal  son; 
Or  Zaccheus,  leaving  his  sycamore  perch, — 
In  Hardscrabble  Chapel  or  Highsteeple  Church? 

Would  he  see  those  who  sought  the  Master  of  old  ; 
The  lost  sheep  He  carried  from  far  to  the  fold  ; 

The  sinner  whom  bloodthirsty  Pharisees  claimed ; 

The  blind  and  the  halt,  the  withered  and  maimed; 
The  lepers  who  dwelt  in  the  caverns  forgot ; 
The  sisters  who  sobbed  in  that  Bethany  cot ; 

The  woman  that  stood  by  the  palms  at  the  well ; 

The  penitent  thief,  who  was  halfway  in  hell ; 
Sad  souls  whom  this  world  had  cast  into  the  lurch, — 
In  Hardscrabble  Chapel  or  Highsteeple  Church? 

Should  he  but  walk,  in  his  white  vestiture, 
'Mid  the  worshipers  there,  the  rich  and  the  poor; 
See  one  lapping  lambs  in  its  warm  woolen  plaid, 
One  sitting  in  purple  and  fine  linen  clad, 
One  breaking  its  bread  to  those  in  distress, 
One  hoarding  the  honey  of  God's  bounteousness, 
One  deep  in  His  love  as  the  wheel  in  the  stream, 
One  craving  to  skim  gay  society's  cream, — 
His  glorious  robes  would  gather  less  smirch 
In  Hardscrabble  Chapel  than  Highsteeple  Church. 


COMRADE  HAYES 

P"^ 

p     A 

|    I  E  marched  with  us, — September's  sun 
1^\    Was  bright  on  bannered  Washington; 
*         From  the  forum,  factory,  and  farm, 
The  East  and  West  went  arm-in-arm ; 
Ten  thousand  shouts  on  loyal  lips, 
Ten  thousand  streamers  made  eclipse 
Above  that  veteran  host  of  blue 
That  walked  the  white-walled  avenue ; 
But  loudest  rose  the  roar  to  greet 
The  statesman  from  the  highest  seat, 
Who  came,  amid  their  wondering  gaze, 
To  march  with  us, — our  Comrade  Hayes. 

He  fought  with  us.     His  glory  is 
A  part  of  ours,  and  ours  of  his. 
We  followed  when  his  charging  line 
Swept  up  South  Mountain's  red  incline; 
Heard  his  deep  voice,  above  the  din 
Of  battle,  cheer  his  "  Buckeyes  "  in ; 
We  saw  him,  'mid  the  missiles'  whirr, 
Wade  that  morass  at  Winchester. 
See !  how  our  eyes  shine  as  we  speak 
Of  that  wild  day  at  Cedar  Creek, 


82  COMRADE  HAYES 

When,  cinched  with  deadly  musket-blaze, 
We  fought  with  him, — our  Comrade  Hayes. 

He  sleeps  with  us,  for  we  are  one, 

Beneath  the  sod,  beneath  the  sun ; 

We  guard  the  rear  while  those  who  died 

Are  bivouacked  on  the  other  side ; 

Some,  in  the  springtime,  deck  the  mounds, 

In  Paradise  some  pace  their  rounds; 

But  all  are  one,  and  aye  shall  be 

Bound  in  eternal  comradery. 

You  have  no  part  or  lot  in  this, 

Who  gave  him  sneer,  or  stab,  or  hiss; 

He  heeds  not  now  your  blame  or  praise, 

He  sleeps  with  us, — our  Comrade  Hayes. 

Columbia,  thou  who  hast,  at  need, 
Hearts  of  this  high  Homeric  breed, 
Thy  gray-haired  legions  weep  to-day ; 
The  flags  are  draped,  the  dirges  play, 
The  while  each  soul  in  sorrow  bends  ; 
This  thrilling  summons  heaven  sends : 
Lift  up  thy  tear-stained  face  and  hear, 
Blown  o'er  the  river,  sweet  and  clear, 
The  bugle-call  that  faints  and  swells 
Across  the  fadeless  asphodels : 
"  Turn  out !  "  it  sings ;  "  each  trump  upraise ! 
Turn  out  to  welcome  Comrade  Hayes !  " 


"THE  OLD  CIDER  PRESS" 


THE  old  Cider  Press,  how 

its  thin  yellow  thread 
Runs  backward  to-night  to 
the  days  that  are  dead, 

When  it  fell  from  the  mill  with  mellifluous  sound, 
Where  the  apples  went  in,  and  the  oxen  went  round! 
O  the  great  honest  eyes  of  the  slow-moving  steers 
Seem  to  look  at  me  now,  like  my  own  full  of  tears, 
As  I  smell  the  sweet  odor,  which  must  be,  I  guess, 
A  breath  of  the  past  from  the  old  Cider  Press. 

O  the  old  Cider  Press  on  the  old  orchard  hill ! 
The  brook  was  the  hem  and  the  forest  the  frill 
Of  that  outskirt  of  Eden  we  called  the  "  old  farm," 
Where  all  knew  the  L,ord  and  took  hold  of  his  arm. 
Mellow  Bellflower  and  Pippin,  red  Baldwin  and  Blush, 
All  pressed  into  pulp,  as  the  great  cities  crush 
The  sad  human  hearts  with  shame  and  distress, 
And  Satan  drinks  the  brew  from  the  big  Cider  Press. 

83 


84  "THE  OLD  CIDER  PRESS" 

O  my  boy,  dreaming  there  by  the  dim  pasture  bars, 
With  fields  full  of  flowers  and  skies  full  of  stars, 
Go  not  to  the  town,  witlnits  smoke  and  its  grime  ; 
Dabble  not  in  its  dirt ;  do  not  die  ere  your  time. 
O  bide  where  the  wind  wimples  wide  o'er  the  wheat, 
Where  the  birds,  and  the  bees,  and  the  blossoms  repeat 
Your  laugh  when  the  lass  of  your  heart  answers  "  Yes,' 
And  you  both  sip  the  juice  of  the  old  Cider  Press. 


"THE  BOY  WHO  NEVER  RETURNED" 


N  the  glitter  and  glow  of  a  day 

like  this — 
When  the  women  are  lifting  their 

babes  to  kiss 
The  hero  who  wades  thro'  the 

tides  of  cheers 
Of  the  multitudes  looking  thro' 

mists  of  tears, 
As  he  breasted  the  batteries'  iron 

hiss 
In   the  deathless  days — when 

high  in  the  sun 

"Old  Glory"  is  riding  the  smil 
ing  sky 
On  the  trumpet's  blast,  O  I  miss 

the  one 
Who  tossed   to   us   all   the   fond 

"good-bye" 

From  his  youthful  soul,  that  burned 
With  exultant  ardor  to  share  the  strife, 
Saying  that  love  was  more  than  life. 
Roll  slow,  O  drum  !     Wail  low,  O  fife ! 
For  the  boy  who  never  returned. 
85 


86  "THE  BOY  WHO  NEVER  RETURNED" 

This  morning  his  mother  bright  chaplets  made, 
Baptizing  with  tears  each  bloomy  braid; 

While  her  wistful  eyes  were  gazing  South, 

She  whispered  the  name,  with  quivering  mouth, 
Of  that  warrior  lad  by  the  strangers  laid 

To  sleep  where  the  waves  of  a  lone  lagoon 
Break  round  the  grave  of  her  boy  in  blue, 

And  the  winds  in  the  cypress  thickets  croon 
His  dirge  on  the  bank  of  the  dark  bayou. 

"  O  my  soldier  son  !  "  she  yearned  ; 
"O  to  feel  the  clasp  of  thine  empty  sleeve! 
O  bitterest  sweet  on  earth  to  grieve 
Above  thy  dust,  and  a  wreath  to  leave 

O'er  my  boy  who  never  returned ! " 

List,  thou  loyal  woman,  he  is  not  there; 
Did  not  thy  child  with  his  comrades  fare 

In  spectral  battalions  along  the  street? 

We  heard  no  tread  of  their  phantom  feet, 
But  shadowy  banners  swept  the  air, 

And  our  stormy  shouting  was  meant,  in  part, 
^or  the  white  host,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes, 

Who  came  to  comfort  their  country's  heart 
From  their  tents  in  the  meadows  of  Paradise. 

Yea,  clad  in  the  fame  he  earned, 
He  came  from  his  camp  on  the  crystal  rim 
Of  the  River  of  Life,  as  he  came  in  the  dim 
Old  days  when  the  nation  had  need  of  him, 

The  boy  who  never  returned. 


JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS 

p 

HE)  name  which  fell  baptismal  on  thy  brow 
Of  that  apostle,  brother  of  our  Lord, 
Surnamed  "  the  Just,"  blameless  in  deed 

and  word, 

Fell  from  a  prophet's  lips,  for  "just"  art  thou, 
And  his,  surnamed  "the  Wise,"  who  once  did  bow 
Above  the  apple  'neath  his  garden  tree, 
When  lo,  beside  it  lay  the  golden  key 
With  which  we  fare  thro'  all  God's  mansions  now; 
Yea,  both  of  these  in  thee  do  meetly  blend. 
Themis  and  Pallas  thro'  thy  spacious  verse 
Go  gracefully,  enamored  of  thine  art ; 
Pushing  thy  fancy's  'broidered  tapestry  apart, 
They  peer  where  I,ove  doth  laughingly  rehearse 
Songs  which  thou  singest  us,  Poet  and  Poet's  Friend. 


"JOSEPH" 

EYOND  the  farthest  bourne  of  Dan 

O'er  lands  where  Heaven  has  laid 

its  ban, 
Like  a  spent  snake  the  caravan 

Toward  Egypt  creeps ; 
And  oft  the  wistful  Jewish  slave 
Looks  westward,  where  the  cedars 

lave 

With  murmurous  shade  his  moth 
er's  grave, 

Where  Rachel  sleeps, 
Till  his  bright  eyes,  because  of  mist, 
See  not  the  chain  upon  his  wrist. 

From  out  the  loftiest  linteled  pile, 
That  mingled  in  the  mirrored  Nile 
The  lotus  on  its  peristyle 

With  that  mid-stream, 
He  looks  again,  thro'  orbs  that  swim 
In  tears,  where  Jacob,  old  and  dim 
Of  sight,  comes  chanting  Israel's  hymn 

Of  God  supreme, 


And  sobs  the  purple  can  not  check 
Heave  the  bright  chain  about  his  neck. 

Whoe'er  for  God  hath  iron  worn, 
Jehovah's  gold  shall  yet  adorn. 


"  LOVE  15  ENOUGH  " 

HEY  told  of  our  Savior's  pain, 
The  thorns  and  the  thrilling  cry, 
His  sorrow  when  scourged  and  slain, 
While,  over  and  over  again, 
From  out  my  heart  I  was  fain, 
As  the  Son  of  Man  I  did  see, 
Lifted  high  on  lone  Calvary, 
To  sob  out  this  sad  refrain : 
"O  what  does  he  want  from  me?" 


He  has  angels  who  sing  alway 
His  praise,  and  with  glory  shine, 
While  I  in  my  cottage  with  mine 
Can  only  chant  day  by  day 
The  sweet  stanza,  "  When  I  survey 
The  cross,"  and  in  wonder  say, 
"  He  has  choirs  by  the  crystal  sea, 
Who,  with  shawm  and  sweet  psaltery, 
From  worship  and  work  ne'er  stray; 
Then  what  does  he  want  from  me?" 

When  my  Walter,  our  crippled  one, 
Who  all  thro'  his  life  must  be 

90 


"LOVE  15  ENOUGH" 

My  own  burden,  said,  tenderly, 
"O  mother,  for  all  thou  hast  done, 
What  is  the  reward  thou  hast  won? 
Lo,  spirit  and  strength  I  have  none 
L,ike  the  others  who  circle  thee." 
Thro'  tears  I  said,  "Love  is  my  fee," 
And  lo,  I  had  learned  from  my  son 
"What  my  Master  doth  want  from  me." 


"ALL'S  WELL 


WELL!"    calls  the  sailor. 
In  the  phosphorescent 
Path  of  our  prow  all  the 

planets  are  still. 
Thro'  this  prairie  of  stars 
we  plow,  as  the  peasant 
And  poet  of  Scotland  his 

white-daisied  hill. 
Some  looking  backward  up 
on  the  sad  severance 
Thro'  mists  of  old  mem 
ories,  trying  to  quell 

The  hurt  of  the  heart  with  the  holiest  reverence ; 
And  some  looking  forward.     On  all  the  cry  fell : 

"All's  well!"     "All  is  well." 
Lo,  every  soul's  sorrow  was  lost  in  the  swell 
Of  that  cheery  watchword,  "All 's  well ! "     "All  is  well." 


"All 's  well ! "  calls  the  patriot,  clothed  in  his  purity, 
Faithful  'mid  those  who  are  fain  to  betray; 

Dim  thro'  the  marge  of  the  murk  and  obscurity 
He  sees  the  dawn  of  a  far  better  day. 


"ALL  '5  WELL"  93 

Declaring  our  banner  to  be  but  the  flowering 
Of  the  centuries'  cactus,  the  last  miracle, 

Born  of  the  travail  of  ages,  and  towering 
Aloft  like  the  shout  of  this  brave  sentinel. 
"All's  well!"     "All  is  well." 

And  a  great  "Amen  "  falls  from  the  high  citadel 

Of  our  nation's  Valhalla.     "All 's  well !  "     "All  is  well." 

"All's  well!"  calls  the  Christian.     L,ike  an  anemone 

Blooming  'mid  nettles,  his  faith  seems  to  be; 
He  hath  no  fear,  for  the  Christ  of  Gethsemane 

Holdeth  his  heaven  and  his  future  in  fee. 
He  knoweth  that  love  at  last  will  annihilate 

Hate,  and  for  thistle  will  plant  asphodel, 
To  make  of  old  earth  an  Eden  inviolate. 

O  toss  out  from  the  turret  the  tones  of  the  bell, 

"All 's  well !  "     "All  is  well." 
Let  no  lamentation  lift  up  its  sad  knell ; 
Sing  "Glory  to  God,"  for  "All 's  well!"     "All  is  well." 


"PRETTY  SOON" 


RETTY   SOON!"     "Pretty   soon!" 

How  the  soft  phrase  slips, 
With     limpid,     laughing      cadence, 

thro'  the  languid  lips, 
Where  the  plumage  of  the  palms,  by 

the  south  wind  swayed, 
Flings  on  the  fragrant   terraces   its 

filigree  of  shade ; 
When  the  almond  and   the   myrtle 

have  taken  in  their  net 

The  doves  that  tread  the  measure  of  the  tender  minuet, 
And  the  nestlings  of  the  nightingale  cuddle   low  and 

croon, 

To  the  laughter  of  the  laurel,  "  Pretty  soon  ! "    "  Pretty 
soon ! " 


"  PRETTY  SOON  "  95 

"  '  Pretty  soon ! '     '  Pretty  soon  ! '  "  cries  Youth,  "  I  shall 

make 

My  home  beyond  the  happy  hills  for  her  dear  sake ; 
There  I  will  lead  my  darling,  as  Dawn  doth  lead  the 

Day 

When  God  is  making  morning,  to  sit  with  her  and  say : 
'  Yon  river  to  its  ocean  troth  will  never  be  more  true ; 
The  best  of  life  is  mine  to-day,  because  of  love  and  you.' 
And  heart  shall  rhyme  to  heart  as   unto   the  summer 

moon 
The   swinging   sea  doth  sing,   '  Pretty  soon ! '     '  Pretty 

soon ! ' " 

"  '  Pretty  soon ! '  '  Pretty  soon  ! '  "  sighs  Age,  "  I  shall  see 
That  happy  home  above  us,  where  the  many  mansions  be, 
To  pluck  the  never-fading  flowers  that  make  it  ever 

sweet, 

And  hear  the  pleasant  paces  of  the  silver-sandaled  feet, 
When  beneath  the  healing  trees  they  fill  the  crystal 

urns; 
O  how  the  soul  within  me  for  their  blessed  welcome 

yearns ! 
But  the  band  of  shining  spirits,  with  lips  and  lutes  in 

tune, 
Bid  me  wait,   and  bide    their  coming    '  Pretty   soon ! ' 

'  Pretty  soon ! '" 


AT  IS  YOUR  I     C? 


SAITH  the  Scripture  saint,  "This  life  is 

a  cloud, 
Which  appeareth  awhile  and  vanisheth 

soon." 
Not  the   cyclone  stalking  the   summer 

noon, 
And  shadowing  earth  with  his  inky  shroud, 

May  thy  life  be,  my  friend; 
Where  the  frighted  cities,  beneath  his  frown, 
Are  caught  in  the  twist  of  his  whirling  skein, 
All  strewed  and  spilled  on  the  sodden  plain, 
The  while  the  pitiless  floods  beat  down, 

And  prayers  for  help  ascend. 
96 


"WHAT  IS  YOUR  Lire?"  97 

Not  the  mocking  cloud  that  is  moored  in  air, 
Upblown  from  the  sea  thro'  the  brazen  sky, 
When  the  swooning  world  is  like  to  die ; 

And  the  blinding  sun  but  a  baleful  glare 
And  maddening  fervor  hath  ; 

Which  seems  so  happy  up  there  in  heaven, 

While  men  are  watching,  with  choking  grief, 
Their  harvests  wither— bud,  bloom,  and  leaf— 

For  lack  of  the  help  that  it  might  have  given, 
And  curse  it  in  their  wrath. 


But  the  rosy  cloud  with  the  ripple  of  rain, 
The  lisp  and  laughter  of  dripping  leaves, 
That  sings  to  the  farmer  the  song  of  sheaves, 
And  patters  the  tune  on  the  window-pane 

Till  the  radiant  bow  doth  shine 
In  bands  of  glory  around  its  brow ; 

Till  the  vine-robed  valley,  the  corn-clad  hill, 
The  bird  and  bloom,  which  have  drunk  their 

fill, 

Break  into  canticles,  telling  how 
Man's  life  may  be  divine. 


i*w  jL*:^H*v-.-fl  Ssuu  .;• <••'  ?£ 

<-.;»"s^--          ^SSS9^r*«';:^WMi"' 


"THE  DAY  WE  SEINED  THE  DAM" 


I  HE  day  we  seined  the  dam,  the 

light 
Gleamed  on  the  mullet's  golden 

scales, 

When,  arching  in  his  arrowy  flight, 
He  cuffed  the  glinting  jewels  bright 

About  the  boy  who  held  the  brails, 
And  lit  the  lake  with  shining  scrolls 

Of  radiant  rings  that  roughed  its  calm, 
As  heavenly  raptures  stir  the  souls 

Of  saints, — the  day  we  seined  the  dam. 

The  day  we  seined  the  dam,  the  brim 

Held  all  the  hamlet's  boisterous  brood ; 

Each  tossed  his  tunic  far  from  him, 

Waded  knee-deep,  sun-tanned  and  slim, 
And  stood  there  unashamed  and  nude ; 

The  tamaracks  shook  when  they  laughed, 

And  rhythmic  strophes,  like  a  psalm, 

98 


"THE    D7W  WE  SEINED  THE  DftM  "  99 

Broke  on  the  shore,  as  from  the  raft 

They  dived — the  day  we  seined  the  dam. 

The  day  we  seined  the  dam,  a  bird 

Told  but  one  tale  from  birchen  boughs 
Wherein  the  sleeping  south  wind  stirred; 
And  down  rose-hidden  aisles  the  herd 

Came  tinkling  to  the  brink  to  browse, 
And  in  tall  reeds,  all  satisfied, 

They  stood  where  billows  shook  the  balm 
From  lilies  tilted  on  the  tide 

That  rolled — the  day  we  seined  the  dam. 

The  day  we  seined  the  dam,  how  slipped 

The  stream,  in  slopes  of  rainbow  spray, 
Down  to  the  depths  where  alders  dipped 
Their  beads,  like  monks  who,  in  a  crypt 

For  peace,  unto  the  Highest  pray. 
O  could  I  plunge  in  that  deep  pool, 

With  all  my  woes,  just  as  I  am, 
And  rise  again  as  clean  and  cool 

As  then,  the  day  we  seined  the  dam ! 


"THE  OLD  ZION  CHURCH 


THE  old  Zion  Church,  on 

the  old  country  road, 
Encircled    with    wagons    when 

each  brought  a  load 

Of  the  farmers,  who  came  when  the  calm  Sabbath-day 
Put  the  plow  and  the  reaper  and  planter  away. 
I  can  hear  <(  Coronation  "  flow  out  from  the  choir, 
Bubbling  over  the  building  and  up  to  the  spire, 
Where  one  pair  of  bluebirds  on  Sunday  did  perch 
Just  to  join  in  the  hymns  of  the  old  Zion  Church. 

O  the  old  Zion  Church,  down  its  unpainted  aisles 
How  the  river  of  song  broke  in  ripples  of  smiles 
As  the  bride  drew  her  robes  from  the  altar  to  door 
Thro'  sunshine  that  sweetened  the  old  oaken  floor. 
And  tears  often  flowed ;  for  the  whole  village  wept 
When  the  bonnie  wee  babe  in  its  white  coffin  slept, 
While  the  good  pastor  told  how  Death,  in  his  search 
For  the  good  Shepherd's  lambs,  came  to  old  Zion  Church. 


"  THE  OLD  ZION  CHURCH  "  101 

O  the  old  Zion  Church — I  can  see  it  in  spring, 
When  the  orchards  enfold  it  in  sweet  blossoming  ; 
And  thro'  the  long  summer  it  basks  in  the  heat 
Where  swift  swallows  swim  the  waves  of  the  wheat  ; 
To  the  tone  of  its  bell,  on  the  still  Autumn  morn, 
The  quail  whistles  alto. far  off  in  the  corn; 
And  in  Winter  the  snow  wraps  the  cedar  and  birch 
Keeping  watch  o'er  the  graves  by  the  old  Zion  Church. 

0  the  old  Zion  Church, — where  the  oak  ever  waves 
Its  mantle  of  gloom  o'er  my  ancestors'  graves, 
Where  my  father  and  mother  were  long  ago  laid, 
And  whippoorwill  mourns  in  the  murmurous  shade. 
When  my  time  comes  to  say  a  farewell  to  the  earth, 

1  would  like  to  return  to  the  scenes  of  my  birth, 
Shake  off  the  old  life,  leave  the  world  in  the  lurch, 
For  heaven  is  not  far  from  the  old  Zion  Church. 


"RIGHT  ON!" 

"I  kept  right  on."— Grant's  Memoirs. 

IGHT  ON !  in  the  years  of  war,  of  clamor, 

and  rumor,  and  woe ; 
Right  on!   when  tyrants  of  Europe  said 

softly,  "God  orders  it  so;" 
Right  out  of  the  heart  of  the  West,  when 

all  the  land  was  dumb, 
Came  Grant,  and  the  nation  said,  "At  last 

the  mighty  man  has  come." 


Right  on !  Against  his  belted  braves  old  Shiloh's  bat 
teries  boomed. 

Right  on !  Across  this  hero's  path  the  bluffs  of  Vicks- 
burg  loomed. 

Over  Mission  Ridge  and  Lookout  Mount  serene  and 
strong  he  trod, 

And  the  loyal  North  leaned  hard  on  him  as  he  leaned 
hard  on  God. 

Right  on!  when,  beside  the  Rapidan,  L,ee  stood  across 
his  path, 

And,  overwhelmed,  laid  down  his  sword  to  bide  the  vic 
tor's  wrath; 


"  RIGHT  ON  !  "  103 

But  behold  how  kindly  greetings  banish  every  sharp 

regret, 
As   hand  in  hand   the  chieftains  stand,  and  both  are 

brothers  yet. 

Magnanimous,  unassuming  soul,  his  stern  and  martial 

face 
Looked  soft  as  to  the  boys  in  gray  he  said,  with  courtly 

grace, 
"  Go  home  again  in  peace,  my  friends,"  and  then  the 

warrior  calm 
Came  back  when  all  his  task  was   done   to  wear  the 

wreath  of  palm. 

Right  on!    when  cowards    behind    him    cheapened   his 

kingly  fame; 
Right  on  !  when  the  paltry  enemies  pecked  at  his  lustrous 

name; 
When  the  kings  of  Europe  applauded  him,  all  courteous 

and  mild, 
He  kept  the  soldier's   equipoise   and   the   candor  of  a 

child. 

Right  on !  as  ruler,  the  ship  of  state  with  steady  hand 

he  steered, 
And  never  a  hairbreadth,  right  or  left,  in  any  place  he 

veered 


104  "RIGHT  ON!" 

Best  of  the  West,  them  sturdy  type  of  the  sterling,  rare 

antique ; 
As  soldier,  more  than  a  Roman  bold ;  as  a  patriot,  more 

than  a  Greek. 

Right  on!  from  his  agonized  body  the  spirit  has  now 

gone  forth. 
Pile  palm   upon   his   grave,  O  South,  and  pine,  thou 

weeping  North; 
For,  safe  in   America's    Pantheon,  our  great  soldier's 

shade  we  see, 
With  one  hand  outreached  to  Lincoln  and  the  other  to 

Robert  L,ee. 


THE  BACK  LOG'S  BLAZE 

106 


THE  BACK  LOG'S  BLAZE 

THE  back  log's  blaze — where  the  wide  arch 

showed 
The  gloom  above  the  hearth,  where  the  red 

coals  glowed ; 
How  it    made  the  dusky  shadows  on  the 

white  walls  lurch 
When    the    wind    around    the    eaves    the   crevices   did 

search. 

How  the  cheery  cricket  chirruped  at  every  childish  jest, 
Keeping  time  in  crispy  rhyme  to  the  tune  he  loved  the  best; 
When  the  curly  king  of  home,  with  all  his  cunning 

ways, 

Was  cooed  and  crooned  to  slumber  by  the  back  log's 
blaze. 

O  the  back  log's  blaze, — when  the  lovers  softly  laughed, 
Then  the  silence  heard  the  whiz  of  Cupid's  winged  shaft, 
And  swarming  sparkles  flew  up  the  open  chimney-throat 
To  the  boughs  of  bloomy  stars  in  the  firmament  afloat ; 
The  sun  of  ninety  summers  split  the  oaken  log,  and  laid 
A  pathway  down  to  Paradise  for  lover  and  for  maid, 
And  paved  a  golden  plaza  where,  amid  the  kindly  rays, 

The  romping  children  rolled  by  the  back  log's  blaze. 

107 


io8  THE  BftCK  LOG'S  BLAZE 

O  the  back  log's  blaze, — then  the  world  was  fair  to  me, 
Far  whiter  than  the  outer  snow  the  inner  purity. 
When  winter  hounds  were  baying  the  cold  December 

moon, 
The  wooers,  hand    in  hand,  went  along  the  lanes   of 

June; 
The  while  the  tempest  roared,  the  mother  rocked  her 

child, 

Then  bending  o'er  the  cradle,  how  wistfully  she  smiled ! 
What  visions  of  his  future  rose  before  her  loving  gaze 
As  she  stooped  to  kiss  him  gently,  by  the  back  log's 

blaze ! 

O  the  back  log's  blaze !     I  can  see  it  rise  and  fall, 
Lighting  up  that  happy  circle  when  the  family  was  all 
Gathered  near  it  in  the  evening  in  the  dear,  old  place. 
O,  I  fancy  it  would  smooth  again  the  wrinkles  from  my 

face, — 
Every  tear  would  disappear  like  the  snowflakes  in  the 

flue, 

As  they  fell  into  the  flames  that  my  heart  is  turning  to, 
Could  those  whom  God  has  taken  forget  their  hymns  of 

praise 
And  just  come  and  sit  together,  by  the  back  log's  blaze. 


"TAYLOR  Or 


•AYLOR  of  Africa,  tried  and 

true, 
The  eyes  of  the  world  are 

bent  on  you, 
Bearing  your  torch  in  the  moral  murk, 
Where  the  awful  shapes  forever  lurk ; 
Proud  are  we  of  the  dauntless  pith, 
Of  the  glorious  heart  you  front  them  with. 
Canst  thou,  old  Egypt,  match  that  pair? 
One  lying  low,  one  battling  there, 
One  dead  on  the  Nile  with  broken  blade, 
One  erect  on  the  Congo,  undismayed. 
Britain  gave  Gordon,  and  we  gave  you, 

Taylor  of  Africa,  tried  and  true. 

109 


no  "TAYLOR  OP 

Taylor  of  Africa,  come  and  rest 

A  night  and  a  day  in  the  mighty  west  ; 

Bring  thy  face  with  visions  plowed, 

Thy  splendid  soul  that  ne'er  was  cowed, 

Thy  mind  which  spills  through  smiling  lips 

What  thy  large  eyes  see  in  Apocalypse. 

O  your  quenchless  hope,  your  manly  grain 

Maketh  Paul  of  Tarsus  to  live  again ! 

In  shallow  forms  our  souls  are  fast ; 

As  a  canon  rings  to  a  bugle  blast, 

Blow  your  trumpet  our  slumbers  through, 

Taylor  of  Africa,  tried  and  true. 

Taylor  of  Africa,  heart  of  oak, 
Hew  Christ  a  path  with  sturdy  stroke. 
The  owls  may  hoot,  the  weaklings  pule, 
The  gilded  gewgaws  call  thee  fool ; 
God  speed  thee  in  that  far-off  clime 
And  give  thy  spirit  strength  to  rhyme, 
With  the  gospel  message  as  it  rolls 
The  shout  of  a  million  ransomed  souls ! 
Thou  wilt  come  some  day  unto  the  throne 
With  troops  of  her  children  as  thine  own, 
Saying,  "  Lord,  hast  thou  more  work  to  do .'" 
Taylor  of  Africa,  tried  and  true. 


"THE  BOY  WE  NEVER  SAW" 


B  potters  work  in  common  clay,  are 

common  clay  ourselves, 
Just  as  humble  and  as  homely  as 

the  jugs  upon  our  shelves ; 
But  this  child  was  alabaster  fair, 

without  a  fleck  or  flaw, 
Sit  down  here,  until  I  tell  you,  sir, 

of  the  boy  we  never  saw. 


One  day  last  fall  a  likely  ball  lay  on  the  molding  rim, 
And  in  the  shed,  at  his  wheel  head,  stood  this  stranger  Jim. 
He  tied  his  apron  on  and  tossed  a  nod  across  to  me, 
Then  struck  his  treadle  softly  as  a  master  strikes  a  key. 

He  held  the   mass  a   moment,  then   so  coaxingly   and 

slow, 
With  every  turn  the  shapely  urn  in  beauty  seemed  to 

grow, 
And  when  the  wire  cut  the  work  from  off  his  heavy 

wheel, 
We  knew  he  was  a  craftsman  true,  from  head  to  flying 

heel. 

in 


ii2  "THE  BOY  WE  NEVER  SAW" 

Jim  had  a  younkit,  four  years  old,  just  coming  down 

to  die, 

A  sickly  lad  who  suffered  so  that  the  women  had  to  cry, 
Telling  how  the  little  tyke,  soon  as  the  pain  would  stop, 
Called  for  the  little  kickshaws  we  sent  him  from  the 

shop. 

We  made  the  queerest  cups,   and  then  we  made  the 

oddest  jars, 
With  many  a  dip  of  smoothest  slip,  and  many  curious 

stars, 
We  chinked  them  in  the  hottest  kiln,  farthest  from  the 

blaze, 
Then  took  our  turns  to  fire  them,  and  took  our  turns  to 

glaze. 

The  foreman,  in  a  Bible,  found  some  pictured  cups  and 

bowls, 
Lovingly  we   shaped  them,   sir,  with  all  their  ancient 

scrolls. 
He  filled  them  overflowing  with  the  love  he  sent,  to 

say 
That  he  wanted  to  come  and  see  us  all,  but  he  had  to  go 

away. 

We   all   knocked   off  the   day   he   died.      The   Chapel 

preacher  told 
That   shepherds   take  a  lamb   to  lead  a  flock  into  the 

fold, 


"THE  BOY  WE  NEVER  SAW"  113 

And  how  the  singing  seraphs  stood  around  the  throne, — 

but  la ! 
There  is  not  an  angel  there  to  match  the  boy  we  never 

saw. 

We  potters  work  in   common  clay,   are  common  clay 

ourselves, 
Just  as  humble  and  as  homely  as  the  jugs  upon  our 

shelves ; 
O  we    mean  to  see  him   some    day,  sir !     But   my  old 

eyelids — pshaw ! — 
Begin  to  leak  whene'er  I  speak  of   that  boy  we  never 

saw. 


rHRO'  the  garden  at  morn, 
in  cool  emerald  gloom, 
Wends  the  sad  woman, 
leaving  her  lost  Sav 
ior's  tomb, 

Swerving  on  with  no  look  to  the  skies  purple  flushed, 
Thro'  lithe  lilies  leaning,  expectant  and  hushed. 
Her  unhooded  brow  with  the  dawn  pallor  shone, 
Faring  wofully  back  from  the  grave  and  its  stone ; 
When,  before  the  believer,  who  wept  for  the  dead, 
Rose  the  Master,  and  just  the  word  "  Mary,"  he  said. 

IvO  !  there  in  the  dusk  of  the  whispering  palm, 
Her  raiment  all  sweet  with  the  spikenard  and  balm, 
The  myrtle  tops  burning  with  sunlight  above 
Hung  over  the  sinner,  redeemed  by  His  love, 
Purer  far  than  the  dewdrops  upon  her  dark  hair, 
Shaken  down  by  the  pink-footed  doves  cooing  there, 
When  the  laurel's  low  Litany  suddenly  stilled, 
At  the  ringing  "  Rabboni "  her  happy  heart  spilled. 
114 


"  MARY  "  115 

Easter  cometh,  and  Magdalene  calls  us  with  her, 
Thro'  gray  olive  shade,  to  the  Lord's  sepulcher, 
Where  angelic  words  at  the  cypress-hid  prison, 
Linked  like  dulcimers,  say  unto  us,  "  He  is  risen." 
Unsandaled  and  still,  with  souls  all  aglow, 
Drawing  near  we  see  Death,  our  discomfited  foe, 
Folding  all  the  fine  linen  Christ  never  will  need, 
With  face  strangely  soft,  saying,  "  Risen,  indeed." 


THE  Biurrs  or  KICKHPOO 


'THE  bluffs  of  Kickapoo!— the 

bluffs  of  Kickapoo ! 
Forever  on    their    foreheads    fair 

gleams  the  morning  dew. 
Oft  have  I  seen  the  king  of  day  upon 

the  summit  stand, 
And  pour  a  flood  of  glory  over  all  the  prairie 

land, 

And  then  beheld  him  bending  unto  the  river's  side, 
lyike  one  who  cometh  gallantly  to  claim  a  comely  bride ; 
And  fling  her  veil  of  shining  mist  far  up  into  the  blue, 
To  float  in  fleecy  clouds  above  the  bluffs  of  Kickapoo. 


0  the  bluffs  of  Kickapoo  ! — the  bluffs  of  Kickapoo ! 

1  see  the  bridge  beyond  the  ridge,  I  see  the  shallows,  too ; 
Beneath  the  alder  bushes,  how  shines  the  sparkling  ring, 
Made  by  the  leap  of  croppie,  or  the  dip  of  swallow's 

wing! 

116 


THE  BLUFFS  OF  KICKAPOO 

117 


THE  BLurrs  or  KICKRPOO  119 

The  blossoms  of  the  tangled  plum  are  full  of  sweet  per 
fume, 

The  flight  of  startled  redbird  lights  up  the  spicy  gloom. 

No  summer  day  was  long  enough  when  it  was  spent 
with  you, 

And  night  was  never  welcome  on  the  bluffs  of  Kickapoo. 

O  the  bluffs  of  Kickapoo ! — the  bluffs  of  Kickapoo  ! 
Though  far  away,  my  soul  to-day  doth  bring  them  into 

view; 
Amid  the  trees,  around  their  knees,  my  boyish  heart  is 

hid, 
Where  gossips  tell,  thro'  all  the  dell,  what  little  Katy 

did. 
And  here,  among   the  city  streets,   how  oft  my  spirit 

yearns 
To  hear  thy  ripples  rhyme  again,   amid  the  fringe  of 

ferns, 
O  for  one  hour  of  that  old  joy,  when  all  my  life  was 

new, 
To  climb  the  path  to  heaven  up  the  bluffs  of  Kickapoo ! 


VICTOR  HUGO 


he  is  dead,  you  say!  that  dauntless 

king  who  loomed 
Like  a  snowy    mountain,    above 

the  pines  of  France. 
So    now    he    clambers   sunward, 

with  spirit  all  illumed, 
And  leaves  his  weary  frame  in  the 

grave's  deep  trance. 
While  all  his  loyal  comrades,  beside 

the  leader's  tomb, 
Grope,  baffled  and   bewildered,  thro' 
the  cold,  gray  gloom. 

Dead,  with  his  ^tna  heart  all  burned  to  ashes  now ; 

The  eloquent,  resistless  lips  silent  in  the  dust; 
That  pen  which  wrote  the  doom  upon  Napoleon's  brow, 

And  jarred  his  rotten  throne,  is  laid  away  to  rust. 


VICTOR  HUGO  121 

lyoved  by  God  and  little  children,  O  honey-hearted  man, 
How  shall  the  world  go  onward,  with  no  Hugo  in  the 
van? 

The  last  of  the  immortals,  latest  of  the  lofty  strain, 

All  suckled  in  adversity,  who  tugged  our  sinking 

race 

Out  of  miry  shamelessness.     To  keep  thee  we  were  fain, 
But  lo,  the  Lord  hath  called  thee  to  thy  exalted  place, 
Where  the  others  all  await  thee,  crowned  and  battle- 
scarred, 
To  greet  thee  at  thy  coming  to  receive  thy  rich  reward. 

A   prophet   named   thee  Victor,   thou  who  hast  never 

failed ; 
When  God  had  need  of  man,  singer,  seer,  and  sage, 

all  three, 
Thou  righteously  didst  smite,  never  doubted,  drooped, 

nor  quailed; 

For  fifty  glorious  years  led  the  hosts  of  Liberty. 
When  the  Future  says  to  France,  "O  name  thy  noblest 

soul," 
She  will  show,  with  radiant  face,  thy  name  upon  her 

scroll ! 


ORTY,  and  straight  as  a  Norway  fir, 

and  yet  I  clean  gave  way 
To-night,  dear  wife;  to  save  my  life, 

I  knew  not  what  to  say. 
Back  came  hurrying  memories,  like 

doves  that  homeward  fly; 
How  they  gave  us  cheer  for  every  year !  O  swiftly  they 

went  by, 
Freely  as  God  spilled  streams  of  suns  to  sweeten  the 

abyss, 
When  the  clump  of  chaos  blossomed  into  worlds  like 

unto  this. 
I  spake  for  you,  and  the  wee  ones  too,  but  O  my  eyes 

were  blurred, 
When  all  was  done  for  every  one,  and  I  came  to  the 

parting  word ; 
With  all  my  soul,  like  the  open  scroll  of  the  stainless 

heaven,  I 

Said,  "  Old  Bible  and  old  pulpit,  and  old  Shiloh  Church, 
good-bye ! " 


THE  LAST  SERMON  123 

Silence,  like  the  spaces  vast,  and  feeling,  profound  as 
the  sea, 

Came  o'er  them  when  I  fondly  told  what  they  had  done 
for  me. 

Thro'  loving  smiles  along  the  aisles  I  went  to  take  my 
stand ; 

And  manfully  I  tried  to  say,  as  I  grasped  each  friendly 
hand, 

"God  fold  you  fast!"  but  failed  at  last  when  up  came 
Abner  Smith, 

His  face  lit  with  the  great  big  heart  he  loves  his  chil 
dren  with, 

And,  when  they  brought  him  forward  there,  he  stam 
mered,  and  began, 

"  I  was  only  a  drunkard  when  you  came,  and  now  I  am 
a  man;" 

And  then  his  wife  so  sadly  said,  "  'T  is  hard  to  hear  you 
tell 

The  old  Bible,  and  old  pulpit,  and  old  Shiloh  Church 
farewell ! " 

When  to-morrow,  at  the  break  of  day,  that  harvester, 
the  sun, 

Shall  husk  the  early  shadows  from  the  hill-tops,  one  by 
one, 

And  by  the  winds  of  morning  the  shreds  are  swept,  and 
whirled, 

And  piled  upon  the  porphyry  plain  that  rims  the  wak 
ing  world, 


124 


THE  LAST  SERHON 


When  the  torch  of  dawn  among  them  makes  all  the 

east  to  glow, 
Then,  with  our  babes  around  us,  we  will   both  arise 

and  go 
Back  to  the  humble  building,  and,  with  all  our  hearts 

and  minds, 
Sing  the  song  we  've  loved  so  long, — "  Blest  be  the  tie 

that  binds," 
And   with   a   sigh    say   fond    "Good-bye,"    till    Shiloh 

Church  we  greet 
Thro'  other  eyes  in  Paradise,  childlike  round  Shiloh's 

feet. 


rHBN  the  mower  cuts  the 
clover,  and  the  swallow 
skims  the  corn, 
And  the  cockerel  is  telling  he  is  glad  that  he  was  born ; 
When  the  dawn  is  rich  with  robins,  piping  in  the 

poplar  trees, 
And,  deep  within  the  hollyhocks,  you  hear  the  honey 

bees; 
When  the  quail  calls  up  his  covey,  by  the  whistle  of  his 

name, 

In  the  plaited  old  fence  corner,  with  its  Indian  pinks 
aflame, 

O  something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say, 
Sip  the  sweetness  of  the  morning,  while  you  -may, 
For  Love  will  soon  be  winging  on  his  way — 
Something  in  the  stimmer  seems  to  say. 

"5 


126  SOMETHING  IN  THE  SUMMER 

When  the  wheat  upon  the  hillside,  in  bending  billows 

rolled, 

Is  tossing  scarlet  poppies  high  upon  its  waves  of  gold ; 
When  by  the  tree  the  baby,  whose  father  binds  the 

sheaves, 
Is  laughing  at  the  squirrels  hid  among  the  lisping 

leaves ; 
When   reapers   rest   at  noon   within   the   ample    leafy 

shade, 
Where  the  oriole  is  swinging  in  his  emerald  ambuscade, 

O  something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say, 
Sip  the  sweetness  of  the  morning,  while  you  may, 
For  Love  will  soon  be  winging  on  his  way — 
Something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say. 

When  the  blackbird,  in  the  tree-top,  is  tangled  in  his 

song, 
And  the  catbird  gives  him  challenge,  whether  right  or 

wrong ; 
When   the  speckled  hawk   is   sweeping  across  the 

distant  sky, 
And  friendly  sheep  are  grazing  all  about  you,  as  you 

lie 
Looking  down  some  river  bend  where  a  bit  of  blue  doth 

shine, 
So  vaguely  thro'  the    curtain  of  the   trumpet  creeper 

vine, 


SOMETHING  IN  THE  SUMMER  127 

O  something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say, 
Sip  the  sweetness  of  the  'morning,  while  yon  may, 
For  Love  will  soon  be  winging  on  his  way — 
Something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say. 


When   all  the  hills  are  hazy,  and  the  heated  hollows 
make 

An  echo  to  the  pheasant,   drumming  deep  within  the 

brake , 

When  you  loaf,  and  look  and  listen,  where  honey 
suckles  sway 

Their  lamps  in  dim  savannas,  dreaming  back  a  happy 
day; 

When  you  drift  with  sleepy  lids,  by  sheer  laziness  op 
pressed, 

Thro*  the  languor  of  the  spirit,  when  you  only  think  of 
rest, 

O  something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say, 
Sip  the  sweetness  of  the  morning,  while  you  may, 
For  Love  will  soon  be  winging  on  his  way — 
Something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say. 

When  nature  doth  entice  you  with  a  hundred  soothing 

charms, 
And  you  feel  yourself  enfolded  in  her  strong  maternal 

arms; 


128 


SOMETHING  IN  THE  SUMMER 


And  peace    comes  down,  so  soft,  upon  the  weary 

heart  and  brain, 
You  break  the  heavy  shackles  and  the  soul  doth  see 

again, 
All  the  visions  of  the  future,  long  forgotten,  drawing 

near, 
All  your  hopes  and  your  ideals  calling  unto  you  so  clear, 

O  something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say, 
Sip  the  sweetness  of  the  morning,  while  you  may, 
For  Love  will  soon  be  winging  on  his  way — 
Something  in  the  summer  seems  to  say. 


WHERE  THE  CORK  GOES  DOWN 

130 


"WHERE  THE  CORK  GOES  DOWN" 


;  HEN  your  wife  has  gone  to 
visit  where  mother  dear 
resides, 
And  you  could  not  win  a  battle, 

if  you  owned  both  sides, 
When   you   become   so   weary 
that    you    can    not    turn    a 
wheel, 
And  drag  yourself  to  labor  with  a 

weight  at  either  heel, 
And  quarrel  with  your  shadow  and 

give  the  folks  the  "blues," 
There  is  an  ancient  medicine  that  every  man 

should  use. 
And  its  name  is  "  go  a-fishing."     Get  a  long 

and  limber  pole, 
With   some  tackle  and  a  can  of  bait,  and  start  toward 

the  hole 
Out  beyond  the  river  bend,  about  a  mile  or  two  from 

town, 

Just  to  loaf  and  lounge  at  leisure  where  the  cork  goes 
down. 


132  "WHERE  THE  CORK  GOES  DOWN" 

Some  meander  to  the  mountains  cool,  and  some  toward 

the  sea, 

But  I  will  take  my  chances  underneath  the  chestnut  tree 
That  lays  upon  the  sloping  bank  its  shadows  deep  and 

wide, 

And  flings  its  raveled  blossoms  down  upon  the  lazy  tide. 
There  all  my  troubles  tumble  with  the  turtles  out  of 

sight, 
When  from  the  yellow  stubble  comes  the  yodel  of  "  Bob 

White;" 

And  there  I  speculate  in  futures  just  as  freely  as  I  like, 
For  I  may  pull  out  a  muscalonge,  a  pickerel,  or  a  pike; 
But  the  hope  upon  my  features  fades  away  into  a  frown 
When  a  "pumpkin-seed"  deceives  me  where  the  cork 

goes  down. 

Some  say,  "Work  your  muscle  if  you  want  to  rest  your 

mind," 
I  say,  "I^et  them  both  relax  when  health  you  want  to 

find, 
Take  a  dose  of  doing  nothing;    take  it  on  some  river 

shore, 

Where  a  flicker  far  above  you  raps  upon  a  sycamore, 
And  a  devil's  darning-needle  gads  around  you  just  as 

glad 

And  contended  as  the  pollywog  upon  the  lily  pad." 
O  when  your  hook  is  fastened  in  a  lusty,  leaping  bass, 
And  at  the  battle's  ending  you  can  lay  him  on  the  grass, 


"WHERE  THE  CORK  GOES  DOWN"  133 

You  feel  so  full  of  spirit  from  your  shoes  up  to  your 

crown 
That  your  life  will  be.  worth  living  where  the  cork  goes 

down. 

A  chap  who  studies  eating,  says  that  fish  is  good  for 
brain : 

I  think  it  is  the  fishing,  not  the  fish,  that  gives  the  gain ; 

For  I  have  noticed  that  the  fellows  let  imagination  play 

Round  the  wonderful  dimensions  of  the  one  that  got 
away ; 

And  the  stories  chase  each  other,  just  as  chipper  and  as 
free 

As  the  squirrels  winding  streaks  of  red  around  the  elm- 
tree. 

O  when  the  sur  is  near  to  setting,  your  soul  begins  to 
sing 

As  you  purchase  from  a  country  boy  a  dozen  on  a  string, 

And  you  march  home  in  the  evening  a  romancer  of  re 
nown, 

Telling  how  you  missed  the  big  one  where  the  cork 
goes  down. 


"WHERE  ARE  THE  HEROES?" 

HERE  are  the  heroes  of  old  days?  " 

He  asks,  and  lifts  his  lyre,  and  chants, 
In  sounding  psalm,  the  meed  of  praise 

Due  to  the  dead  itinerants; 
The  men  who,  fearless,  trod  the  maze 
Of  unpathed  forests,  sailed  the  sea, 
Preached,  prayed,  and  rode  with  Asbury, 
That  Christ  might  have  sole  empery. 
"  Where  are  the  heroes  of  old  days  ?  " 

The  while  beside  him  men  say  this : 

"  Send  us  where  souls  in  sorrow  die ; 
Where  heathenism's  brood  will  hiss 

In  hell's  dread  dialect,  when  high 
The  cross  of  Calvary  we  raise  ; 

To  serve  where  Satan  has  his  seat; 

To  warm  them  with  our  own  heart's  heat; 

And,  when  't  is  done,  say  death  is  sweet." 
"Where  are  the  heroes  of  old  days?" 

Their  hymns  are  heard  in  canons  cold, 

By  blight  or  blizzard  undismayed; 
134 


"WHERE  ftRE  THE  HEROES?" 

The  frontier's  farthest  farm  they  fold 
In  Jesus'  love,  and  with  Him  wade 

The  Siddim's  slime  of  city  ways ; 

Thro'  crying  want  and  crushing  debt 
Give  one  their  tears  and  one  their  sweat, 
And,  dying,  ask  of  God  to  get — 

"  Where  are  the  heroes  of  old  days." 


"JIM'S  MEETING" 


UR  dear  old  pastor  used  to 
preach,  as  natural  as 
a  bird, 

Just  the  cheery  kind  of 
sermons  that  a  bobo 
link  can  pour 
Upon  you  from  a  cherry 
bough,  whenever  he 
was  stirred  ; 

His  wooing  talk  would  almost  win  the  fishes  to  the 
shore. 

But  he  wandered  off  one  day, 
In  a  curious  sort  of  way, 

And  got   badly   "in   the   brush,"    as   the   circuit-riders 
say. 


Down  at  Ebenezer  Chapel  there  was  meeting;   every 

night 
The  parson  pleaded  tenderly,  though  he  was  weak 

and  worn, 

136 


"JIN'S  HEETING  "  137 

Saying,  "  Come,  my  neighbors,  come !   O  come  into  the 

light, 

To  stand  with  us   together  in  the  dawning  of  the 
morn ! " 

And  when  he  stopped  to  cough 
Not  a  sinner  dared  to  scoff, 

From  the  graybeards  in  the  corner   to  the  lovers  far 
thest  off. 

Then  his  voice  went  to  a  whisper — he  could  not  speak 

at  all ; 
And  next  evening  I  saw  Jim,  the  ragged  child  of 

cobbler  Wood, 
Shivering  at  the  crowded  entrance,  close  against   the 

outer  wall, 

Till  he  called  the  preacher  over  in  the  corner  where 
he  stood, 

And  he  said,  "  I  heard  them  pray, 
At  our  home,  for  you,  to-day, 

And  I  went  out  and  dug  some  medicine  to  drive  that 
pain  away." 

"God  bless  you!"  said  the  preacher  to  the  boy  so  thin 

and  cold, 

And  unwrapped   the  little  parcel  with   his  gentle, 
patient  smile; 


138  "JIN'S  MEETING" 

'T  was  a  stringy  root  of  calamus,  in  brownish  paper 

rolled, 

But  I  saw  his  face  was  beaming  as  he  elbowed  up 
the  aisle. 

Then  he  read  a  tender  hymn, 
And  in  prayer  my  eyes  were  dim 

As  he  knelt  there,  reaching  up  for  God  and  down  for 
little  Jim. 

When   he  rose   and   read  a  Scripture   like  a  dripping 

honeycomb, 
O  I  saw  the  gift  had  cured  him,  for,  my  friend,  he 

fairly  took 
That  crowd,  and  led  them  captive  all  into  the  Father's 

home; 

Beneath  his  melting  pathos  stoutest  sinners  swayed 
and  shook; 

As  a  river  deep  and  wide 
Shoulders  at  a  dam,  he  cried, 

"  Come,  lyord ! "  and  when  it  tottered  all  the  town  was 
in  the  tide. 

All  around  the  mourners'  benches  people  gathered  with 

a  rush, 

And  amid  the  praying  penitents   disciples  worked 
and  wept; 


"JIN'S  MEETING"  139 

But  he  could  say  no  more — lie  had  strayed  into  the 

brush ; 

L,ost   in   some   Eden   thicket,   while   the   stream   of 
mercy  swept 

All  about  the  young  and  old, 
And  a  hymn  of  joy  was  rolled 

From  the  lips  of  shouting  converts,  coming  safe   into 
the  fold. 


When  Wood,  who  was  converted,  went  singing  down 

the  road, 
The  preacher  walked   beside   him,  just  to  tell   his 

faithful  wife, 
And  they  filled  the  lowly  cottage  full  of  melody  that 

flowed 

Until  midnight,  for  a  man  redeemed  and  started  new 
in  life. 

And  often  I  have  cried, 
As  he  has  told,  with  pride, 

Of  "Jim's  Meeting,"  as  he  called  it  to  the  very  day  he 
died. 


"THE  BROOK" 

OW  it  bubbles  clear  in  the  cool,  damp  room, 
Where   the    pans   of  milk   light   up    the 

gloom, 
All   sweet  with    breath    of  the  summer 

bloom 

On  the  swaying  locust  boughs, 
i     Where  the  cobweb  lace   doth  the  walls 

adorn, 

When  the  passionate  sun  at  the  peep  of  morn, 
Breaks  into  the  nook  where  the  brook  is  born, 
In  the  lowly  old  spring-house. 

Down  beechen  bluffs  to  the  blue-grass  plain, 
It  winds  the  thread  of  its  silvery  skein 
On  the  old  mill-wheel  again  and  again, 

Where  the  jocund  miller  sings  ; 
Mid  briery  mazes,  thro'  blossomy  meads, 
Where  trout  leap  up  at  the  drifting  seeds, 
And  the  cat-bird  dips  the  alder's  beads 

In  broken  ripples  and  rings. 

How  it  shimmers  and  shines  across  the  sand 

To  the  winey  tarn,  where  cattle  stand, 
140 


THE  BROOK 


"THE  BROOK"  143 

When  the  heat  is  heavy  on  all  the  land, 

Deep  in  the  shady  pond, 
And  from  all  the  hives  the  buskined  bees 
Fly  out  to  the  orchard  to  rifle  and  tease 
Their  sweets  from  the  spreading  apple-trees 

On  yellowing  hills  beyond. 

And  when  all  oblivious  it  hath  flowed, 
By  the  pasture-field  and  the  winding  road, 
To  the  doorway  of  many  a  cot,  and  showed 

Its  cheery,  laughing  face; 
And  reluctant,  slow,  it  comes  to  the  sea, 
How  I  wonder  if  ever  it  turns  like  me, 
To  the  ancient  room  and  the  locust  tree, 

And  thinks  of  its  old  birthplace. 


THE  DOGWOOD  TREE 

|RIDB  of  the  woodland  wide,  dainty  and  unde- 

filed, 

Bright  is  the  blessing  thy  beauty  doth  bring ! 
When  April    leadeth  thee,   with  thy  white 

garments  free, 

Up  from  the  South,  in  the  front  of  the  Spring, 
Shaking  the  snow  of  thy  bridal  robes  sweet, 
Flowing,  in  foamy  surf,  down  to  thy  feet, 
Bride  of  the  woodland  wild,  dainty  and  undefiled, 
Thee  we  are  waiting  to  greet. 

Winter  has  lingered  long ;  O  how  we  miss  the  song 
That  always  welcomes  thee  over  the  hill, 
The  bold  chee-wink,  chee-wink,  of  the  gay  bobolink, 
And  the  low  call  of  the  coy  whippoorwill, 
For  thee  doth  the  morning  lark  scatter  the  night  ; 
For  thee  doth  the  tanager  flash  in  his  flight, 
Bride  of  the  woodland  wild,  dainty  and  undefiled, 
Haste  thee  to  dawn  on  our  sight ! 

How  thou  wilt  miss  the  one,  who  was  the  first  to  run, 

Laughing,  to  meet  thee  along  the  lone  glen ! 

144 


THE  DOGWOOD  TREE  145 

Swallows  are  making  search,  and  from  the  graceful  birch 
Kingfisher  calls  her  again  and  again. 
Long  will  the  wren  wait  to  show  her  small  nest, 
And  the  brown  fledgelings  beneath  her  proud  breast, 
Bride  of  the  woodland  wild,  dainty  and  undefiled, 
Darling  has  gone  to  her  rest. 


GOD'S  MANUSCRIPT 

PON  the  hallowed  ground  of  Galilee,  O  John, 
Thy    Master    writeth,    while    the    wolfish 

crowd 
Bends    lowering   looks   upon    the    woman 

bowed, 
Cursing  her  lovely  face,  so  tearful  and  so 

wan; 

Still  asks  the  deep  heart  of  mankind,  which  sees 
Her  streaming  eyes  fixed  on  the  brow  divine, 
"  What  was  the  import  of  that  single  line 
Writ  by  the  gracious  Christ  amid  the  Pharisees?" 
Saying,  "  O  to  have  seen  upon  the  favored  sod 
Those  jewels  from  the  forefinger  of  our  God ! 
Go  forth  this  morn  in  May,  where,  all  unrolled, 
The  daisied  meadow  lies,  signed  o'er  with  gold  ; 
In  flowery  text  he  writes  his  gospel  as  of  old!  " 


146 


THE  UNKNOWN 


,ACK   swings   on    the    mast;  his   heart   ne'er 

quakes 
When    Euroclydon   tumbles   the    sea,   and 

takes 
His  ship,  like  a  harp,  in  his  hands,  and  wakes 

From  every  rope  a  wail. 
He  has  weathered  a  hundred  storms  before ; 
And  his  faith  will  weather  a  hundred  more, 
But  the  roaring  stress  of  a  street  ashore 
Makes  him  cower  and  quail. 

Dick  plays  his  part  in  the  mart's  mad  rush, 
As  calm  in  the  din  of  its  deafening  crush 
As  a  fawn  at  dawn,  in  the  purple  hush 

Of  the  palms  of  Paradise. 

He  dreads  the  deep,  where  the  wild  waves  comb 
Their  crests  on  the  breasts  of  gulls  that  roam 
Thro'  the  spray,  as  gray  as  the  flying  foam 

That  flecks  the  lurid  skies. 

Each  wonders  at  each,  for  both  can  bide 
The  known,  but  fear  what  they  have  not  tried, 
147 


148  THE  UNKNOWN 

So  man  doth  shrink  from  the  echoless  tide 

Where  waits  the  boatman  pale ; 
Kindly  Death  doth  smile  at  his  freight  afraid, 
And  strips  the  mist  with  his  oar's  swift  blade 
From  the  strand,  where  the  band,  in  white  arrayed, 
Shouts,  "Welcome,  and  all  hail!" 


ON  CHRISTMAS  EVE 


O! 


Christmas  Eve,  in  this 

dim  room, 
There  drifts  across  the 

deepening  gloom 

The  faint,  old-fashioned,  spicy  scent 
Of  mistletoe  and  holly  blent; 
And  while  the  cheery  wood-fire  burns, 
She  whom  I  loved  and  lost  returns 
To  sit  beside  me, — soft  and  low, 
I  hear  the  voice  which,  long  ago, 
Around  my  heart  a  spell  did  weave, 
When  life  was  young  on  Christmas  Eve. 

On  Christmas  Eve  I  see  the  pond, 
And  from  the  hollow  woods  beyond, 

Conies  echoing  back  the  skaters'  glee, 

149 


ON  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

As  happy  sweethearts  swinging  free, 
In  rhythmic  stroke  and  graceful  curve 
Across  the  crystal  surface  swerve. 
O  eyes  of  blue !  O  curls  of  brown ! 
O  streaming  scarf!  O  fluttering  gown! 
How  doth  your  lover  lonely  grieve 
When  all  are  glad  on  Christmas  Eve  ! 

On  Christmas  Eve,  along  the  street 
The  people  pass  on  eager  feet, 
With  gifts  to  greet  the  gladsome  morn 
Of  that  blest  day  when  Christ  was  born. 
Each  to  his  own  will  cry,  "  Take  this ! " 
And  each  will  share  the  smile,  the  kiss, 
While  I  alone  shall  try,  thro'  tears, 
To  count  the  sad  and  sombre  years 
Since  that  dark  day  when  thou  didst  leave 
This  world  all  cold,  on  Christmas  Eve. 

On  Christmas  Eve  I  envy  not 

The  laughing  ones,  whose  happier  lot 

It  is  to  join  the  scenes  of  mirth, 

And  cry,  rejoicing,  "Peace  on  earth!" 

Some  day  I  feel  I  too  shall  win 

My  Father's  house,  and  enter  in ; 

For  by  the  portal  she  doth  bide, 

Robed  and  expectant  as  a  bride; 

Then  all  her  love  I  will  receive, 

In  God's  good  time  on  Christmas  Eve. 


COMMON  THINGS 

HAVEN    send    us   a  prophet  with  wit  to 

teach 
Our    race,    which    to    folly    so    fondly 

clings, 

That  all  that  is  good  is  within  our  reach, 
The    cream    of    life    is    the    common 
things. 


We  may  have  no  turreted  palaces  piled 
In  high  colonnade  and  pillar  and  cope, 

But  forever  the  mountains  undefiled 
For  us  thro'  the  roseate  azure  slope. 

There  never  was  park  like  the  prairie  lawn, 
Nor  symphonies  like  the  ocean's  song, 

Nor  picture  to  match  the  amethyst  dawn, — 
These  blessings  to  all  of  our  kind  belong! 

No  wine  gives  the  fillip  of  frosty  air; 

No  satin  e'er  came  from  a  foreign  loom 
As  white  as  the  sheen  of  the  lilies  fair, 

Wan  acolytes  lighting  the  woodland  gloom. 


152  COMMON  THINGS 

Because  the  bright  river  is  free  to  all, 
To  man  and  beast,  to  flower  and  tree, 

And  on  every  sinner  the  sunbeams  fall, 
The  sun  and  the  stream  are  dear  to  me. 

We  have  winds  that  silver  the  dusky  rill ; 

The  forest  of  pines,  with  healing  breath ; 
And  friends  and  home,  and  love,  and  still 

The  best  of  all,  our  old  neighbor  Death. 


PICTURES  Or  THE  PAST 


'OD  is  good  to  let  us  keep  in 
mind  the  pictures  of 
the  past; 

And  sometimes  in  the  sum 
mer,  when  the  seething 
city's  clack 

Flings  sorrow  on  my 
fevered  soul,  I  take  the 
outward  track, 
And  from  off  my  weary  spirit 
all  the  slavish  burdens 
cast. 

O  leaving  work  half-done, 
Far  away  from  care  I  run 

To  where  a  brook  winds  thro'  a  wood  and  wimples  in 
the  sun. 


I  saunter  in  the  tousled  grass  that  tangles    round   my 

feet  ; 

High  above  my  lifted  head,  where  the  tulip-trees  are 
crossed, 

153 


154  PICTURES  OP  THE  PHST 

In  her  cool  and  airy  cradle,  the  cardinal-bird  is  tossed ; 
While  the  emerald  grove  is  girt  with  the  gold  of  wavy 
wheat, 

And  the  rivulet  is  traced 
By  a  thread  of  silver,  laced 
Thro'  ferns  and  fair  white  lilies  wading  in  it  to  the  waist. 

Far  away  I  hear  the  murmur  by  the  dripping  mill-wheel 

made; 
Dewy  roses  light  the  thickets,  whete  ring-doves  coo 

and  croon ; 
From  the  levels    comes   the   music  of  the  mowers' 

harvest  tune, 

All  rejoicing  in    a   cadence   to  the  swish  of  sharpened 
blade, 

While  the  quail  in  coveys  rise, 
Whirring  from  the  gleaming  scythes, 
And  the  frightened  rabbit  leaps  at  the  harvester's  loud 
cries. 

The  unwithered  bloom  of  bramble  winds  the  fences  in 

its  wreath ; 

Where  the  squirrel  sits  and  chats  with  the  reiterat 
ing  jay  ; 
And  the  honey-burdened  bee  doth  halt,   upon  her 

homeward  way, 

Where  sumach  spreads  its  branches  over  partridge-eggs 
beneath ; 


PICTURES  Or  THE  PRST  155 

On  distant  slopes  the  sheep, 
In  long  shadows  lie  asleep, 

And  across  the  winding  path  I  watch  the  tortoise  slowly 
creep. 

Far  down  the  lane  the  oxen  strain  against  the  polished 

yoke, 
As  they  draw  the  creaking  wagon  up  toward  the 

traveled  road  ; 
And  the   laughter  of  the  boys  that  ride  upon   the 

fragrant  load 

Has  scared  the  speckled  hawk  from  his  perch  upon  the 
oak ; 

For,  with  a  sudden  cry, 
He  mounteth  up  on  high, 

And   wheels   in    burnished   curves    upon    the    dappled 
summer  sky. 

The  anise  and  the  spice-bush  have  brewed  a  rare  perfume, 
Along  the  woodland  edge,  where  the  workers  rest 

from  toil, 

Floats  the  smell  of  meadow-sorrel,  the  scent  of  penny 
royal, 

Mingled  with  the  breath  of  balsam  and  the  wild  grape 
bloom. 

Once  more  I  sit  and  sing, 
Within  the  forest  swing, 

Where,  enamored  of  the  murmurous  tree,  the  vine  doth 
cling. 


156 


PICTURES  OP  THE  P7XST 


Thro'  the  Babel  of  the  town,  high  above  the  whistle's 

scream, 
I  hear  the  modulated  chirring  of  the  shrill  cicada's 

voice, 
And  oblivious  of  my  labor,  make  again  my  youthful 

choice 

Of  the  berries  from  the  brier,  or  the  pebbles  from  the 
stream ; 

A  glow  of  love  is  cast 
Over  all  my  life  at  last, 
As  Fancy  turns  the  pages  of  the  pictures  of  the  past. 


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